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.