Dear Santa,

Thanks so much for another wonderful Christmas! Greyson loves his Transformer and has only shot his eye out once with his Buzz Lightyear disc shooter. Tuesday is in love with her dress-up clothes and accessories and so far we've only had one casualty (a skirt) due to an insistence that she did not, in fact, have to go potty. And don't worry, she totally forgave the absence of a Girl Transformer under the tree. And between you and I, a girl transformer? Something you might want to think of in the future, but no hurry. Fynn is the happiest little bug and can really haul on his race car with the extra-loud Ready, Set, RAAAAAACCCCCEEEEEEE horn. All chaos aside, it really was a lovely Christmas and I'm sending the warmest of thanks your way.

Now that the season is over, for you anyway, I've been doing a little thinking. Being as you work so hard in the last quarter of the year, I'm sure you take a much-deserved vacation, probably even for the whole month of January. And really, I applaud that; if anyone deserves it, it's you, Big Guy. But I'm wondering, what do all of those formerly-busy little elves do? I mean, they've had a few days now to breathe and center themselves but I'd be willing to put a bet on boredom setting in right quick. I know I, for one, would just lose my mind if I had work, work, worked my way through the better part of a year and then had absolutely nothing to do, come December 26.

So that's where my itty bitty, teeny tiny little request comes in. You see, Santa, I didn't ask for anything this year, not a single thing. I've had a great year and I'm in a really great place; life is good, great even, and I'm not in need of anything. But after all was said and done, I realized that there is one little thing that I would like. We're heading home tomorrow after having been gone for two weeks, and prior to the two weeks I'd been convalescing in my home post-surgery with a host of familial caregivers coming and going. With all this upheaval in our normally well-regimented life, you might imagine the state of my typically spotless home. You guessed it: it's a pit and a half. An absolute disgusting mess of food particulate, dust, grime of unknown origin and untold amounts of grit and salt from the roads - although with the sad attempt at winter that we're in the midst of, I'm having a hard time finding a reason for all the de-icing materials.

Anyway, what I'm thinking is that with all those under-employed elves, you might be willing to spare one or five and hire them out to come and clean my house, Merry Maids-style. It'd be great if they could just swoop in this evening and tackle all the business that I'm not going to want to encounter when I arrive home tomorrow afternoon. I think 24 hours lead time should be sufficient. And I'm not asking for much, just a little vacuuming, dusting (don't forget the baseboards), sweeping/mopping, scouring of the bathrooms, a once-over of the kitchen and a quick glance at any windows with lick marks warranting a little wipe-down. Time left could be spent washing all the bedding and remaking the beds, tidying up any toys or clothes that aren't in their rightful place, cleaning out the fridge/freezer, opening the curtains and fluffing the pillows - you know, just make the place look nice and inviting. Oh, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I've got a mess of a storage shed that could really use some organizing. I think that should do it, but I'll let you know if I think of anything in the meantime.

Again, thanks for a really lovely Christmas. No one could do it as well as you, Mr. Claus; you were made to do this job. Warmest wishes for a great vacation - I hear Bora Bora is simply breathtaking, this time of year. I bet Mrs. Claus is a real looker in a two-piece!

XOXOXO,
Leah

Educate Me

I'm not a teacher nor could I ever be a teacher, and for many reasons. Not the least of which are my dislike of children and a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. I also find it unendingly irritating to have to explain myself more than once. Like I said, many good reasons for not pursuing a career in education.

So while I in no way consider myself any sort of educator, I do feel that there are a few areas  in which those in the field should excel. Perhaps it's a bit bold of me to set my own standards for educators, but I think you may agree with me. For example, I personally feel that educators should have to prove spelling and grammar proficiency prior to being trusted with the growing minds of children. Crazy, I know, but my standards are high. I feel so passionately about this that I've taken the liberty to list a few specific examples:

*working knowledge and implementation of rules governing they're/their/there; to/too/two; you're/your
*ability to distinguish the difference betweens nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs
*knowledge of the parts of a sentence and the "job" of each part of the whole ie: how to put a fricking sentence together so it reads as it should
*a reading/comprehension level that exceeds that of your students, seriously

If you're nodding your head along with me, I'd hazard a guess that you've met a teacher or two who struggle with these challenging concepts. One of my favorite examples is the wide and wonderously tragic world of Facebook posts. Here's a tip to all of those Facebooking, blogging teachers: I read your posts. All of them. And then I know exactly where NOT to send my children for school. I'm a big advocate of alternative education settings and curriculums, but if you cannot read, nor spell, you have no business teaching anyone. Not even your own children. Especially not your own children. Mommy does NOT know best, in this instance.

I would love to say that I plan to homeschool my children but let's be real: I haven't the desire nor the capability to take their education into my own hands. I'm simply not equipped to provide them with what they need to move into life with the proper tools. I'm thankful for the two years that remain before I have to make the tough decision as to where and how my children will be educated. While I have no idea what "school" will mean for my children, you can bet your ass my first interview question will be: How would you use the word "your" in a sentence?

Nice to meet you?

At what point does a somewhat awkward social situation go from uncomfortable to ridiculous? Let me explain: I have met a particular women in my community on no less than 25 separate occasions over the past four years. We've been introduced and chatted multiple times, she is a Facebook "friend" and she pretends she doesn't know me every time we are introduced. Again. For the umpteenth time. I mean, really. When, exactly, will this no longer be embarrassing for me and turn into embarrassment for her? Because four years in, we haven't reached that threshold and I'm getting real tired of pretending I've never met this bitch before. Particularly because I end up "meeting" her several times a year.

I know who her husband is and I've seen him on a few occasions, but he doesn't know my name (how could he? his wife has no idea who I am) and though we've never been introduced, he always greets me with the politeness reserved for the token Hello when passing someone you recognize. Perfectly acceptable; he doesn't know me but does recognize my earthly presence and treats me in kind. Not so much for his Very Busy and Important wife.

While I may be a passive-aggressive person by nature, I am usually good at controlling my natural instincts in public. That said, I'm sick of this shit and I've no doubt that I will once again be forced to "meet" this woman over the holiday season - if I'm lucky, maybe even more than once. Wheeee! I'm marinating some ideas for taking care of this situation once and for all. No final plans, but right now I'm leaning towards carrying a 3x5 index card with a list cataloging all of the times we've met and names of the organizations we've both been involved with. At the same time. Together. And feel free to brainstorm with me; I'm always taking suggestions.

Seriously?

I'm going to a networking event in a few weeks and after I registered I realized that one of the men speaking at the event happens to be someone I was "matched" with online. I vaguely recall drooling over his pictures and fantasizing about our perfect future as a family of travelling foodies. And because I'm really, really bad at meeting men in general, let alone dating, I've blocked out what was certainly an embarrassing fail in the form of an online greeting that received no response. Awesome.

This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.

I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.

Letting Go: The Real-Life Dangers of Preschool

As a woman who has been a stay-at-home-mom since the birth of my first child, I found it both liberating and devastating to send my children to daycare/preschool for the first time. After having gone back to school it became clear immediately that I would need some quiet time in my home in order to get my work accomplished in a (rarely) timely fashion.

It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...

I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.

(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)

You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.

Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.

Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.

"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)

Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.

Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?

Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter, I presume?

I got up early today. Like, 30 minutes early. And I didn't hit the snooze button, not even once. In fact, I bounced up out of bed to the strumming of an obnoxious guitar solo that serves as the alarm tone on my phone and raced to the shower. You might be thinking, why do I use my phone as an alarm clock, when as a bonafide adult I should have graduated to genuine alarm clock ownership? Well, funny you should mention it. As a matter of fact, I am the proud owner of a bright green, LED color-changing alarm clock. And being such a lovely, and apparently juvenile, addition to my bedroom made it automatically the property of my scared-of-everything almost-four-year-old. Why do I even bother?

But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.

I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.

While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.

Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.

As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.

I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.

What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.

So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?

 

Rage - the new fragrance by 28 Days

I don't recall if I suffered much from PMS as a teenager or in my early twenties. Perhaps because I wasn't as self-aware - going through a divorce can change that part of you forever, like it or not - or maybe because I hadn't yet had children and the entire contents of my abdominal region were still in the position that God intended. I have a few memories of days where my fuse was a "little short", if you will. But during that time I was also married to an asshole, so really, it's a wash.

Because I had all three of my children inside of 34 months, I had my period exactly four times in four years. And because of that, I was spared the reality of the post-partum, pre-menstrual hell that was to be my new reality. It's another one of those awful truths that sneak up on you - right in line with how no one tells you that three-year-olds are rotten and your breasts will be so very, very sad after you stop breastfeeding.

Beyond the cramps that feel like someone is driving a stake through my belly button and out through the tattoo on my lower back and the "fatigue" that does a great job of convincing me that I might actually die if I don't take a nap, I've come to realize that for a solid ten days of the month, I am going to be SuperBitch. As in, raging, extremely irritable, where-the-hell-is-the-saltshaker SuperBitch. And it's not like I'm unaware that I'm a bit out-of-sorts. By the morning of day three I'm past thinking my kids are out to get me and I've moved on to, Oh yeah, I'm supposed to get my period here pretty quick and that segues nicely into Well, it better come real damn soon because I can't even stand to be around myself right now.

Right around this time, I've acquired what I affectionately refer to as my "18 week bloat." You know, I look like I'm 18 weeks pregnant and not a damn thing in my closet fits - not that I've even attempted anything other than yoga pants because doing so would just hammer another nail in the coffin of I'm so fat and ugly right now, I just need to cry it out with this jar of Nutella and an afternoon of Sandra Bullock movies. And all this before the main event even arrives.

So let's see here; irrationally irritable? check; ridiculously hormonal? check; ravenously hungry? check; migraine? check; bloated? check; insomnia? check; looks like the gang's all here! Oh, and don't forget about that last-minute panicked race to Target because even though you were sure you bought enough to last for six months, you've run out. Again. The laws of nature also clearly state that this maniacal run through Target will be done with unwashed hair, mascara smeared under your eyes and you will run into no less than three people that you know but would never explain to, why you look the way you do right now. So by my calculations, I should be making this trip sometime this weekend. I can't wait!

I thought I'd end the day by yelling at my kids for reasons not good enough and an attempt to quell said rage with a salty binge. You know where I'm going with this, right? You guessed it: Ramen. And because the 1580 mg of sodium in ONE PACKET is not enough to tamp down the beast within, I made sure to make it a two-pack night.

Now I'm off to throw back a few Benadryl and a sedative with the hopes that I have a more successful nights' sleep than last. So wish me luck, ladies. And remember, if you think you're having a shitty day, feel free to give me a call towards the end of the month; we can rage together. But mostly, you'll just have to listen to me rage. Because it's All About Me.

Dinner's Here!

I'd like to preface this story with a little tidbit of information about myself: I don't embarass easily. I'm pretty adept at finding the humor in uncomfortable situations and I have no problem laughing at myself. Plus, humiliation makes for great story-telling. But while I don't embarass easily, I do, on occasion, find myself without words.

I'm self-employed and run my business from my home and I often receive packages relating to said business.  Also, because I'm rich. Last week was a banner week for deliveries - I was expecting the UPS and FedEx guys to be by with no less than eight separate shipments. Things were going swimmingly until early evening on Thursday. A package that I needed for the next day had yet to arrive so I had my kids glued to the front window, keeping watch for me. I was also expecting the delivery guy to stop by with our Chinese takeout.

The doorbell rang, and not seeing a delivery truck, I assumed it must be the food. I open the door to see a guy holding out a cardboard box, wearing a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. Since when did FedEx go casual?
"I have a special delivery," he says, all kinds of gorgeous and making me wish Fynn didn't have his hand down my shirt.
"You're not my dinner." It's a statement, not a question. He smiles and holds up his other hand, with the bag of food.
"Oh, you are my dinner." Buhhhhhhhhhh... Instantly red, I dig through my wallet and pull out an extra $5, pushing it towards him as he starts to laugh and walk back to his car.

I shut the door, wishing my filter worked better on days like today. I sigh and mentally add Beijing to the list of places that I can no longer order from.

Two days later, I'm following up on some work leads and see an unfamiliar number in my phone with a 612 area code. I call the number, expecting it to be one of my leads in the metro area and imagine my horror when the CHINESE TAKEOUT GUY answers. I'd forgotten he'd called to get directions to my house. I start stammering out some incoherent explanation about how I thought he was someone from work and blerb flub glank plugf... He sounds confused and then suddenly, "You're the lady from Thursday, aren't you?"
"Ummm, yeah. Sorry. I'll just, uh, take your number out of my phone." I hung up before I could further convince him that I was a stalker who wanted to have him for dinner. Oh. My. Goodness.

Being Neighborly

My doorbell rings after dinner one night last week and as usual, I have no pants on (does anyone else see a theme here? Why am I so often without proper clothing? Oh, that's right, I never get to finish a task because I'M A MOM) and my kids are racing eachother to the door, fighting over who gets to open it, heedless of my multiple warnings about Strangers and kidnapping etc. Strangers aside, I'm more concerned at the moment about the door flying open wide for the hot FedEx guy to see me in my panties. Of course, they were cute panties. But still.

I manage to hold the kids off long enough for me to wrap a blanket around my waist while I try to remember what exactly I look like at the moment. This proves too difficult a task so I say Eff It and open the door anyway. Lucky for me, it's just two 8-year-old neighborhood boys, one with the most intricate cornrows I've ever seen and the other with startlingly orange hair. And both of them are into their second can of Mt. Dew since school let out, but the looks of their inability to sit still long enough to complete a single, coherent thought. As they talk over one another, interrupting, stumbling and repeating random thoughts I realize they're trying to sell me something from a massive armful of fundraiser catalogs. I listen politely and do my level best to hold them back with my knee - they seem determined to come in for a visit and perhaps a Cherry Coke.

"So, whaddya gonna buy?" says the tall one with the braids that I want to touch, but won't, because it just showcases my ignorant white side. The red-head is out of breath and I take advantage of the moment of quiet, not to get my checkbook, but to hit them where it hurts.

"Sorry guys, not today. But thanks for stopping."

They stand, bewildered but not broken. Yet. Says the red-head, gesturing with his thumb to my next-door neighbors house, "Well, uh, your neighbors said you're rich. Soooo...?" Eyebrows raised, lip curled in confused expectation, he waits for me to recant my polite refusal and open my pocketbook to allow the stacks of Benjamins to flutter down into his outstretched palms.

It takes everything I have not to burst into hysterical laughter; instead I offer a bemused "Really? Well, that's nice. Have a great night, boys." I turn and close the door as they walk away, rejected by the Rich Lady in the 'hood.

Greyson looks to me and says, "Who's Rich?

"You know, Great-Uncle Rich? The one that looks like Grandpa D?"
"Uh-huh. But he's not here, Mom."
"I know, buddy. Maybe someday he'll come and visit us. Wouldn't that be nice?"

I call him, The Negotiator

It's the Monday Morning Mad Dash and I'm still naked, hair dripping wet and exactly one and a half of my children are dressed. We're late, 'cause we're always late, but I'm not Frantic Late. Yet. Tuesday is having a hard time getting her socks on so I ask Grey to give her a hand.

"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."

He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"

As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."

"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"

Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.

Things I Love:

Meddling strangers at the grocery store.

I recently took the trip from hell to Super One in Kenwood. And let's be honest, most any trip by yourself with three tiny kids sucks, but this one was Extra rotten. It started out ok, except for my already foul mood. We grabbed one of the car carts and I thought my kiddos would be so delighted with the novelty that this quick trip would go off without a hitch. What a novel idea. I made my way through the produce section without incident. As we round the refrigerated juice corner, a woman stops me to tell me that I have "the most gorgeous children." Why thank you! You can have one if you'd like. Another woman standing nearby echoes lady #1's sentiment and proceeds to follow me through the store and comment on their remarkable beauty every other aisle or so.

By now Greyson and Tuesday have heard how beautiful they are enough times to feel that any behavior is darling and thus acceptable. Including but not limited to: jumping in and out of the cart, running away from the mom, pulling one another's hair, emptying shelves on the floor - glass jars in particular, and loudly sharing all the hilarious potty vocabularly recently learned from friends. Awesome. My specially formulated, for-public-use-only Rage Whisper is rapidly becoming an out-loud, constant reprimand that borders on out-and-out hysteria. I'm moments away from my own Mom Tantrum so I give up and race through the store, running over customers and my children alike in order to grab the items we absolutely have to have.

By the time we make it out to the car, in true Duluth fashion, it is at least 30 degrees warmer than when we went in the store and the humidity has risen to 400%. My wool sweater immediately sticks to my body and threatens to shrink and fuse to my skin. I rip my sweater off and race to the car, (praying that I rememered to put a bra on under my tank top) Grey with a leg hanging out the door of the car cart and Tuesday doing her level best to jump ship. Fynn is bawling but he's strapped in so he doesn't matter right now.

Grey hops out of the cart and the magnetic force of a giant puddle pulls him in, causing him to lose his mind and jump in with his brand new tennis shoes. While I'm yelling at him and trying to rangle him into the car, now soaking wet, Tuesday escapes and runs out into traffic, laughing maniacally and enjoying her freedom and ability to make her mother shoot fire out of her eyes. I slam the door on Grey and race to grab Tuesday, screaming about roads and cars and danger and "SQUISH YOU LIKE A BUG" and stuff her into the car. Meanwhile, my giant cart rolls into the middle of the road, Fynn still strapped in and bawling, and a nice gentleman gives me a dirty look and kicks at the cart to change its' path, lest it crash into his Buick.

My blood pressure is approximately 300/220 and I can feel a stroke in my very near future. With the groceries and Fynn safely in the car I go back to strap in the big ones, by now hysterical with the injustice of life as a child. Much shoving and stuffing commence as they pull out the trademark Flex Move, the one where their butt comes all the way up and out of the seat, rendering the strap-buckling impossible. About an hour later I have all three buckled, bawling and ready to get the hell out of there. My hair is sticking to my face, I'm sweaty and my eyes are bugging out of my head, pulsing in time with my blood pressure - imagine The Hulk, minus the greenish hue.

And it just gets better. The woman parked next to us has slammed both of my car doors in order to get by and is chain smoking with the windows rolled up in her truck, just enjoying the show. When I get the last door shut after my wrestling match with my kids, she rolls down the window, allowing me to share in her quest for emphysema, and holds out two suckers.

"Hey, can your kids have these?"
"No, they can't. But thanks." How cliche is that? Strangers offering candy? I mean, really...
"Well, they sure don't look very happy."

Yep, they aren't very happy. 'Cause I'm a horrible parent. And I thought I could get through Super One before lunch. By myself. With all three kids. And a car cart.

Dear Conan O'Brien,

I've been a fan since my early days in college - the first time around, that is. I was so excited, like many others, to see you make the move to The Tonight Show. And like the rest of the world, I thought the show sucked. But don't worry, Conan, I have the answers to all of your problems.

You'll be relieved to hear that you aren't the problem, nor are the writers. You are a New Yorker, through and through and your appeal stayed in New York. The west coast is material, superficial and vacant, while the east coast is cerebral, ironic and witty. Am I the only one that can see why this is a problem? Hello? An audience who doesn't get the jokes, doesn't laugh. Take your freakishly tall, red headed self back to New York and have a cool show again. Because really, I can't watch you on TBS any more than I could watch you tank on The Tonight Show.

Someone should pay me for this stuff.

Love,
Not Laughing Leah

So sue me...

Yeah, yeah, I've been absent for like a million years. Sue me. I can be counted on only for my unreliability, chronic lateness (although D says my lateness has not reached "annoyingly late" status yet, merely predictably late - so I guess I'm predictable if not reliable) and my charm and sharp wit. So stay tuned and you just might laugh 'til you pee.

I was at Walgreen's picking up some Sudaphed yesterday so as to minimize the chance of my left cheek and eye socket exploding and making a mess while I was at work. And it only took an hour, what with the DNA swab, blood sample and criminal background check. Thanks a heap, meth users; couldn't you have used something like Pepto Bismol? I never buy that shit.

While I was waiting to be frisked by the meth police, a brother and sister came back to the pharmacy, presumably to pick up something to do with the ginormous cast on his arm. Imagine my horror when he threw his arm around her and started to slurp on her lower lip while they waited. Seriously, there is NO WAY they weren't related. They looked IDENTICAL. Same nose, same eyes, same coloring. Opposites attract? Not so, with this couple. I went into full-on Inappropriate Stare state; I couldn't help myself, it was THAT disturbing. And if I'm being totally honest, I actually had to put on some lip gloss to keep my mouth busy so I couldn't ask them what the deal was with them lookin' all related and stuff. Creeeeeeeeepppppyyyyyy. Oh, and if you're wondering, yeah, I took my time getting out to my car so I could do a little more staring when they came out together. There was something not quite right about that pair. I wonder if their parent's know what they're up to?

Mid-Week, Midnight Tobie's

A few weeks ago my job took me to Ham Lake for an evening and on the drive home I found myself blinking for what some might consider "too long". After two, count them, TWO failed attempts at finding an open McDonald's I decided to hit up Tobie's. I figured I could get a good cup of coffee and something to munch on while I tried to wake up enough to get myself home. Alive.

Jessica seated me in the booth across from the 70-somethings and right behind the young couple who were very enamored of one another. So much so, in fact, that I think he ate his entire meal out of her mouth. Fran came to take my order and brought me a steaming cup of brown water. Tobie's is known for their caramel rolls and various other delicious baked goods, right? Right... In my delirious state I seem to have forgotten that and instead ordered some sort of  club-ish sandwich and a side-salad consisting of four pieces of brown, iceberg lettuce and one radish. It was just as delicious as it sounds.

By now it's about 12:45 am and for the life of me I can't figure out what the 70-somethings are still doing in a restaurant, besides enjoying their pancakes and scratch-offs. A lovely couple comes in as Fran brings me a to-go cup of hot, musty water to keep me company on the ride home. The newcomers take a seat and my night is now complete. She's wearing biker shorts that I'm pretty sure were purchased in 1993 along with a halter top that may have been black at one point but is now a dusty, dirty grey-brown. Her ensemble is topped off nicely with a neon green fanny pack. His ponytail is longer than hers and his chaps seem a bit unnecessary considering they rolled up in a Buick. But who am I to judge?

Thanks for a great evening, Tobie's. I credit the brown water for getting me home safely.

Just wondering...

Is it still a missed call if you didn't want to talk to the person anyway?

A little of this, a little of that...

"Kraft Singles: The *American* Cheese." Yeah, I think I can agree with that ad campaign. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this commercial personifies the American legacy. Pasteurized prepared cheese product - now if that isn't the American dream, I don't know what is.

My kids were squealing with unrestrained glee and I was loathe to walk into the living room lest I spoil their fun. Ok, let's be honest: I didn't want to go in there because I knew something gnarly was going down. True to form, they were playing leap-frog with two ottomans as the lily pads. Baby brother also happened to be lying dangerously close to the fracas and I attempted to ward off a cardiac episode as I growled "This better not be what I think it is." Tuesday throws me an exasperated look over her shoulder and without missing a beat says "Go back in the kitchen, Ma. Make dinner." Sweet girl, huh? What a lovely bunch of people I'm bringing up. I'm so proud.

I love Flipping Out with Jeff Lewis but I spend every episode with sweaty palms and nervous bowels, as if I'm next on the list for an ass-chewing that leaves me sobbing off my mascara in his immaculate bathroom. I love you, Jeffrey, but you make me nervous.

It's a very satisfying feeling to complete an at-home waxing. Particularly because every time I attempt a session there is no certainty that I'll finish. There are no two ways around it: waxing effing hurts. Like, a lot. Like, I get irrationally angry (at myself?) because it hurts like a mother. And if you quit in the middle, the joke's on you. Try explaining that to someone who gets close enough to your half-waxed bits. "Oh, haha, it just grows like that." Awwwkward...

I've been thinking about joining an online dating site. But on further examination, I'm pretty sure I would spend a good deal of any date with my lip curled up in disgust and my brow furrowed, full of judgment. What do you mean, you don't have a fully vested 401k? I'd also have to make it a dry date because no way am I going to let a stranger come to my house. I mean really... And then I'd have to pay for parking. And a babysitter. I think I'm too broke to date. And too out-of-practice to hide the unimpressed look that is my new normal. A fancy dinner and expensive wine? Not so much. How about a foot rub and a venti dark-roast from Starbucks while I read a magazine and you don't talk. Now that sounds lovely.

Dear high-efficiency, top-loader washing machine,

You are a miserable piece of shit. I cannot say as I've ever found a more useless piece of machinery in my life, and that includes the infamous vibrator from '02 with the missing on/off dial. But I digress... You sell yourself as the God of clean, eco-friendly cleansing but I object. In fact, I Strenuously Object. (A Few Good Men, anyone?)

I've washed a fair bit of laundry in my day and I have certain expectations, namely, clean clothing. I noticed the obvious ketchup stains on my daughter's white shirt and gave you a pass. Likewise for the (small, pea-sized) chunk of pink Play-Doh that had cemented my son's sleeves together. Now, the real problem for me came while folding a load of my infant son's clothes. The blind rage that accompanied the discovery of still-present baby drool complete with flecks of infant oatmeal nearly did me in. Are you fricking kidding me?! You can't handle drool and pureed oatmeal??? What the hell kind of WASHING machine are you? You're like the meteorologist of washing machines - wrong every time yet the masses stay faithful.

Big shot, name-brand washer/dryer set that cost upwards of $2000 and I'm ready to pull out a washboard and start using my bathtub. I'll say it again, miserable piece of shit.

Disgusted and wearing dirty, clean clothes,
Leah

Pity? Party of One...

Yes, I'm having a total pity party for myself today and I think I deserve it. I had my ex-husband and his girlfriend over for dinner tonight. I wanted to clear the air of some serious missteps on her part and discuss parenting boundaries with the hope that we can all move forward and create a great environment in which to raise my three babes. Dinner was delicious - wild sockeye salmon with dill, caesar salad, ciabatta rolls with dill butter and dairy-free chocolate cake for dessert, thoughtfully provided by said girlfriend.

I asked the ex to do baths and bedtime with the kiddos and he came down no less than six times to make certain I wasn't beating his 6'2" girlfriend or berating her while holding her down and spitting in her eyes. Rest assured, I didn't have time enough to fit any of those things in. I had what I thought to be a perfectly civil, honest and open come-to-Jesus talk with her about some of the seriously bad choices/decisions she's made since arriving in our lives, mere weeks before I delivered our third child and several months before my ex and I separated. I wasn't confrontational, rude or unkind in any way. The sheer horror of welcoming this person into my home, my haven, and making her a meal to enjoy with my family and ex-husband was enough to take any fight out of me.

While tidying up after dinner I explain my position and how I'd like to move forward so that my children can benefit from and not be upset by the new reality of our family. And while it felt good to say what I'd been rehearsing for three days straight it would have been much more gratifying to have actually received some feedback. New girl sat with my baby boy in her lap while I swept and prattled on and she never once made any attempt to clarify her past actions or acknowledge my concerns and wishes.

Leah, Brick wall; brick wall, Leah. Eventually I got about 45 seconds of comment from her, including mention of her sister who is also a single mom and how she knows more about my position as the ex-wife than her own position as new girlfriend. Then what the hell are you doing?!?! Lemme tell ya, your sister sure isn't doing you any favors if she's whispering in your ear advice for how not to enrage your boyfriend's second ex-wife.

When the evening was reaching its' end I found myself having said what I needed to say with absolutely no idea if my words had been heard, will be heeded or merely discarded as the rantings of a crazy ex-wife. At any rate, I tried. I want my children to grow up with a loving, supportive family - no matter the make-up of said family - and my pride aside, I'll do what it takes to make that happen.

That said, I'm pretty sure I don't have the strength for any more "family dinners." I am physically and emotionally drained, exhausted, spent... I should cry but I don't even have the strength to make that happen. I'm lonely and never have I been more aware of my new status as divorcee. There's nothing like watching your ex-husband (jackass though he may be) leave your home with another woman as you turn back to your own empty living room. No one to review the night with, no one to fold me up in a big hug and tell me I was great and dinner was delicious. Yuck, blech, ugh, gross. I don't want him back, not for a minute, not for all the money in the world; I know that I deserve better. But Better, are you out there?

Dear Greek Yogurt,

Listen, I'm really trying here, but I just don't like you. Fage, Oikos, Athenos, the list goes on. I've tried them all and you all taste terrible. You're so chic and hip right now and I consider myself an adventurous eater with a great palate but you're proving to be a real challenge for me. Eating you is like filling my mouth with super thick, gritty, fat-free sour cream. You must know you're not that tasty because you package yourself with a nice little side-car of jam - and even that isn't enough to choke out your overdone yogurtness. I continue to try you because I'm waiting for that ah-ha moment where it all clicks and I'm converted into a life-long lover of the Greek. If someone could just explain to me your great appeal I would appreciate it - maybe then I can find a place for you in my life. Until then, I will continue to buy you sporadically with the intent of conditioning myself to find you enjoyable. I'm not holding my breath.

Not so much,
Leah

The Suck List

Reason #73 why is sucks to be divorced: Moving.

Four days, ten broken nails, one broken toe, 87 embarrassing bruises, heaps of trash, countless trips in and out and a good amount of sweat and tears later, we're moved in. The beds are put together, my kitchen is a disaster of random placement and inefficient use of (less) space, the TV is hanging beautifully - Thanks, Brian! - and most everything is in the room to which it belongs.

Sleep? Minimal. Nourishment? Mostly in the form of coffee and beer. The shakes? Oh yeah, I got 'em. Emotions? Fear, anxiety, excitement, disbelief, anticipation, defeat, pride, exhaustion. Headache? Like you wouldn't believe. Cordless drill? Must purchase...

I was so fortunate to have the help of my sister, brother-in-law, dad, Dara, Cameron, Grace and Derrick. Without them I'd be a messy puddle in the living room of my old life. With their help I was able to move the necessary goods into our new home and start the business of building a new life for my children.

When the last load hit the living room and the moving team departed, the reality of my situation came at me like a freight train. I was sitting, alone, in the living room - a tiny island in a sea of chaos. There was no husband coming along to carry the heavy boxes. No one to cuss the makers of IKEA furniture and then call to me to come check it out - the kids rooms are put together. No one to empty boxes and take the trash out and fall into bed with, exhausted, after a long but satisfying day of hard work. Would I trade the former for my future? Never. Not for anything.

So here I sit, exhausted and not a little overwhelmed but determined as ever. Determined to turn it around for Greyson, Tuesday and Fynn. Determined to make better choices this time around and demand better for myself and my family. I deserve it; I know this now. So give me your worst, IKEA. You're no match for my mechanical aptitude and dogged determination.

It sucks to get divorced and while I don't know what my future holds, I do know without a doubt that it doesn't suck.

Dear O'Neill's Pub & Liquor,

Thanks so much for having a drive-up window. You've allowed me to look every bit the part of a drunk-on-the-go. And with my kids in the backseat, to boot. Day drinker, you say? Nay! I'm simply a multi-tasking, single-mom who hates to leave her kids in the car for a trip inside. The dirty looks, I tell ya.

They say you can't win 'em all. I say picking up an ice-cold 12 pack through a handy little window is a great start.

Love, love, love,
Leah

The Suck List

Reason #486 why it sucks to be a divorced woman/mother: craigslist goes from being a sort of shady but convenient way to get rid of your shit to being a necessary yet terrifying avenue for disposing of your stuff.

Case in point: I have a bunch of clothes and kid stuff for sale right now as we ready for our move to our new home. I'm literally cringing as I post my home telephone number in my ads on craigslist and saying a silent prayer that I don't hear from any weirdos, sickos or murderous villians.

I lucked out; I got two tweaked-out freaks. They called no less than three times and showed up with cash, but needing change. It took him a while to realize that I couldn't help him and after staring at me for a full 30 seconds he says "Uh, so you don't got change?" Right... I thought we had established that. Another 30 seconds goes by and he comes out with the brilliant "Uh I gotta go to the store I guess." Yep, I guess so.

Meanwhile his friend is hanging his head out the passenger window of the vehicle, bobbing his head much like residents of psychiatric facilities the world over. The music must have been amazing in the rusted-out Cutlass they were rolling in.

Every hair on my head is standing at attention while waiting for this kid to return with correct change and relieve me of my precious baby girls' clothes. It's all I can do to send the clothes home with him. He squeals away from the curb, his co-pilot banging his hand on the door and shaking his head like it's his Job.

Although glad to have the exchange over, I'm beyond creeped out that this duo now knows where I live and how I look in my sweats. Gross. Moving day can't come soon enough.

So, I was thinking...

When I'm looking for a snack my eyes wander over the multitude of nuts in my cabinet, pausing on the peanuts, gazing past the cashews - I should really throw those out - and lingering on the salty, green, mouth polluting pistachios. I consider sitting on the couch with a little bowl of the green gems and a cold beer. My tongue reflexively starts to slip over my clean, slick molars and I sigh at the thought of the work ahead of me. Because much as I like nuts, I dislike their insistence on settling in every, single crevice in my mouth. It's all I can do to finish a handful without making a run for the floss. To be honest, I'd like to floss between every nut but that's just crazy talk. I mean really, mint wax and pistachio aren't a match made in culinary heaven. But today, my little pistachio friends called my name ever so sweetly and the crunchy, tasty little morsels won. I'll regret it in an hour but for now, I'm happy with my nuts and beer. Life is good.

Really, Mom?

I was sitting at the dining room table with my mom one afternoon during my last trip home. It was almost noon and I was still in my pajamas, braless and in need of some floss and a bit of face-time with my toothbrush and the shower. I absentmindedly scraped some dried-up goobers off my shoulder while spooning squash into Fynn's mouth.

"So, do any of your girlfriends have someone in mind that they think you should meet?" Mom asks innocently, almost as an afterthought. I stop short, squash landing in Fynn's lap, and look at her out of the corner of my eye. "Seriously?"
"Well, I was just wondering. I thought it would be nice for you to meet some new people."
"Right. Well, no one has mentioned anything to me. I'm not sure I'm not ready to date yet."
"Why not? You're a beautiful woman and you have a lot to offer. And you're so young!"
"Yeah, mom, what gorgeous, successful, mid-30's, never-married-no-kids guy wouldn't want a piece of this. Allllll this." I gesture around to Greyson and Tuesday, him shooting a nerf gun at her forehead and her stripping her clothes off and singing Naked Girl at the top of her lungs. Fynn has taken control of the spoon and is now smearing squash all over both of us. "Yeah, they're lining up around the block for a chance to get in on this mess."

My mom looks over to my gaggle of babes and laughs, as if picturing the hilarity of her statement for the first time. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Someday you'll be ready."

"Probably when they graduate."

Dear Fynn Maxwell,

I'm watching you play in your exersaucer today as you chew voraciously on a crinkly toy you got from your auntie. You are babbling on about your short nap and how you're just so happy to be up and playing with me while your siblings nap. I realized today that you are almost six months old and it nearly brought me to tears. How did this happen?! When I think back to all that has happened in your short life I am amazed.

You were born into chaos and uncertainty, an unstable home at best. Within mere weeks of your birth you'd been to Disney World, had your first two airline flights and witnessed (?) the separation of your parents' marriage and subsequent divorce. Horrific as it sounds, well, it was. But you, along with your brother and sister are thankfully (hopefully) young enough that you won't have memories of the Before and I'm working hard to make sure the After is a wonderful, stable and happy life.

You are the sweetest, happiest and most easy-going little lovey. You were a suprise gift from God and my life has been enriched in countless ways because of you. You brought a sense of balance to our otherwise chaotic life and gave me a new sense of direction and a renewed purpose. I wake up every day with the goal of making a better life for you and your brother and sister; the three of you are the reason for all that I do.

I love you, Fynn Maxwell. Thank you for giving me the courage to change our lives. Please don't hurry to grow up, you're already moving much too fast for me.

All my love,
Mommy

Dear Vicks Baby Rub,

I purchased you with the expectation that you are the Real Thing, toned down for the wee ones. Imagine my disgust when I opened the package and was not assaulted at all, but welcomed by the kindly fragrance of lemongrass and lavender. Really?

I buy Vicks Vaporub because I want it to burn the congestion out of my entire head. I expect it to hurt, that's how I know its working. But this? A small layer of this rubbed gently into my congested baby's chest did nothing but make me want to fire up my tea pot and have a cup of English Breakfast. Baby was none for the better nor was I because he Still Couldn't Sleep.

I love the original, but this baby business is crap.

Still Congested and Sleeplessly yours,
Leah

Moniker Musings

I've been watching a healthy dose of Food Network lately, one of my favorite channels. And one of my favorite chefs on the network is Ina Garten, of Barefoot Contessa fame. I love watching her cook and her recipes inspire me to think about being rich and living in east Hampton with a home that necessitates a Staff. Her home and gardens are stunning and I'm fairly confident that someday, dinner with me will be the subject of one of her shows.

All that aside, I get truly preoccupied when I watch her show. My elementary-school maturity level comes bubbling to the surface, in tune with her pasta water and I can't help but wonder this: did kids call her Ina Vagina when she was in school? I got my fair share of Leah-Pee-a-Diarrhea and Leah-tard so I know how cruel kids can be. My other question is this: did her parents not consider Ina Vagina in naming her? I'm rather certain my parents couldn't be bothered to trouble themselves with such innane details while naming their fourth child, and yet another daughter at that.

And where did the vagina get its' name from? Did Dr. Vagina make the discovery, thus branding it forever with his name? And what came of his ancestors? I've never met a Vagina, but that's not to say they aren't around. Perhaps it's more of a western-United States, regional thing. What do you say, Oregon, Idaho? Maybe it's a European thing. I wouldn't put it past the Welsh or Irish to have a whole band of Vaginas scattered about, spreading their name and family ancestry across the countryside.

My name is Leah, and I'm a Chocoholic.

My chocolate bowl (a thing of legends) is woefully lacking: it contains only white chocolate Kit-Kats (don't even get me started on white chocolate). All I'll say is this: IT'S NOT FRICKING CHOCOLATE. The brownies I made yesterday tasted old, right out of the oven (I actually threw them out!) and I scraped the bottom of the Nutella jar to within an inch of its' life on Saturday. That means I haven't had any quality Chocolate Time in almost two whole days. A trip to the grocery store is in my immediate future and while there I shall spend an embarassing amount of money on all things chocolate. In fact, I may not even buy a single item that doesn't contain cocoa of some sort. That's right, the single life isn't all bad, ladies.

Dear soap.com,

I'm your biggest fan. You allow me the freedom to puchase, in the comfort of my own home and my third-day-in-a-row sweats, health and beauty products, household necessities and a host of other items that I don't need but would have no doubt purchased on a normal trip to Target anyway. Your prices are comparable to Target and about 15% higher than prices at Walmart. Most often, I choose you over either competitor and this is why:

*I can send in my manufacturer coupons (in postage-paid, return envelopes at that) so I don't miss out on any savings that I would be benefited from in-store.
*There is a delicious little link on the upper right-hand side of the site: Savings Center. A click of this link allows me to delight in the weekly specials at great discounts and with great e-coupons that amount to huge savings. Thank you, for giving Walmart some competition.
*Shipping is free at $39. You came out of the gates at $25 for free shipping and I have to say, that was a much better way to operate. I'm going to spend more than $40 nearly every time I go to a discount store but you lose my business for the smaller trips due to shipping costs.
*I put my order in on Friday and get it by Monday. I could kiss you for this. Really.
*I have yet to find a product that I need, that you don't offer.
*You have amazing prices on vitamins and supplements. My kids thank you as well, for the heaping handful of vitamins that I send their way each morning.

I love you, soap.com. You are easy to use and save me time and effort that I'd rather utilize elsewhere. Lower shipping costs and you'll be a perfect 10.

Love,
Leah

That's All She Wrote...

It started off with an icy look from my attorney. "You've got your kids," she remarked, her mouth twisted with disdain. "Yep, that's why I was hoping this could be done another day. I have no childcare on Tuesdays." She recovered from her initial shock and we made a bit of small talk - enough that she could scope out my kids and see that they are indeed, darling and for the most part, well-behaved.

We headed in to the courtroom shortly thereafter and took our seats. Courtrooms are large, quiet and imposing. Having never been in one before I've decided I don't need to see any more - I'm pretty sure they all look the same. G and T are supposed to be sitting quietly on the padded bench behind me, their hands folded neatly in laps, cherubic smiles all around. As it were, G has taken off his boots and is running up and down the bench. T is singing Twinkle, Twinkle - loudly - and neither of them has any sense of the intimidation that I was hoping would stun them into silence for the duration of the hearing. Lovely.

We stand as the Judge enters the courtroom and the hearing itself lasts for about seven minutes. During which time my children worm their way under the table and begin a rousing game of "No, that's MY mommy!" which leaves T screaming to beat hell until I make enough room for everyone on my lap. G then picks my nose while T pulls on my eyelashes. In the meantime, I'm trying to answer questions from my attorney and the judge and I'm cringing on the inside, just waiting to be yelled at. With luck on my side, the hearing is finished quickly.

At the end the judge commends me for not turning this into a "knock-down drag-out fight" and goes on to say how it speaks to my integrity that I have taken "the high road" and put the best interest of my children first. Thanks, I guess. He unceremoniously shuts off his microphone, stands and exits to his chambers. After a few kind words of encouragement from my attorney, I am alone with all three of my children. Now officially divorced, I look around the room. I feel like things should look, sound, smell... different. I see my reflection in a window and note that I don't look any different, nor do my children. I am stunned that seven minutes is all it takes to erase five years - a marriage, three pregnancies, deliveries and babies, laughter, tears, screaming and hateful words. All gone in a matter of minutes. Less time than it takes me to shower or fold a load of laundry.

Marriage is hard work and not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for adulterous, pathological liars with substance abuse and anger management issues - but that's for another day. No, marriage is not easy, but getting a divorce sure can be. Seven minutes is all it takes.

Dear Covergirl,

I feel like I need to come clean to you, Covergirl; the guilt is eating me alive. I have been unfaithful, and with the most unsavory of brands... Yes, I cheated on you with Maybelline. I allowed myself to become blinded by the bright, shiny purple tube of blackest-black Volum' Express The Falsies mascara. I admit that my infidelity was selfish and unkind but I truly never meant to hurt you, Covergirl.

And now that I've come clean, I must report that I received zero satisfaction from my dabble with the dark side. The Falsies nearly had me needing falsies after use as at least one-third of my lashes fell out. Perhaps my punishment? That may be so and I feel properly shamed and humbled.

I have come back to the land where my lashes are long, thick and gorgeous. Thank you, Covergirl, for making the best mascara in the world. We've had our differences over the years but I can now say that you've made a believer out of me. No longer will I yearn to sample the wares of other mascara wands because I have found the promised land in my very black Professional Super Thick Lash mascara.

I love you, Covergirl. I'm so sorry.