hi. i'm lea.

people say that nothing is impossible, but I do nothing everyday.

ABC & me.

thought since I am telling you all about my adventures as a real life “new girl” I might as well tell you what I am dealing with here.

the guys are A, B, & C. the only thing that could have made this arrangement better is if my name started with a D (but face it, the only thing D about me is my bra size).

ok, enough of my ridiculous boobie references. time for business… I’ll start with the first letter of my in-home alphabet. A. he moved into the house just three days before I did. he seems really quiet & besides the smell of hash seeping from under his bedroom door 24 hours a day and his crazy receding hairline (the same one that haunts rogaine manufacturers in their sleep), I don’t really know what his deal is. I do know one thing though, he sells cars for a living. he must be mad charming.

B is a buzzed cut sporting, yankee accent toting, muscle milk drinking son of a bitch. I already told you that he owns the house & lacks cleanliness but he also has horrible taste in home decor. lets be serious though, I’m a bull-headed taurus and not even I would fuck with him (ok, maybe I went a little deep arguing about a shower curtain, but that thing was growing things I’ve only seen on an episode of hoarders). polar opposites. ying & yang. black & white (i shotgun white!). but beyond his poor choice in beer & craigslist purchases, he’s my favorite.

C is just a baby & has a baby. 22 & 2 (don’t worry, C junior isn’t roaming around this glorified frat house on a daily basis). he is a bit on the scruffy side, but cute-ish. I can tell by looking at him that he is a curious little cookie. he is a blue-collar boy; an auto mechanic. he also watches teen mom (brownie points). but yes, other than the toddler & the lack of world experience, he’s a good ‘ole boy.

there you have it. first impressions. give me a month and well see if I am on point with my [abnormally large] gut.

LMNOPeace out.

C loves geography.

As we sat at the dinner table last night, we started talking about who each of us thought was the most beautiful black woman in the world…

“I’ve met this girl who was full blown African. From Jamaica.” -C

this is where the conversation ended.

a quote from C

“thanks for cooking dinner, lea! I mean, it’s not like I don’t like to cook, it’s just that I don’t think I can stand that long.”

FYI: all I did was cut bread & heat up beef on the stove. five minutes, max.

number two.

i have a major dilemma. when i say major, i mean MAJOR dilemma. don’t get your panties in a bunch because no, it’s not what of those so-called “serious situations” like my arm was ripped off by a shark when i was surfing or an old lady attacked me with her walker because i took the last bag of werthers originals that was in the weekly ad at target…. it’s worse. my dilemma: i can’t poop.

i bet you’re now asking yourself “did lea eat too much cheese again?” thinking it is a mild case of constipation, but no, that’s not the case at all. the real reason? i live with three boys.

seriously. how in the world does a “lady” strut into the bathroom, spend a solid 15 in there and not be the suspect of a colon cannonball? the answer: she doesn’t. and trust me, there is nothing girly about the hershey squirts after the accounting manager offers to buy everyone in the office potbelly for lunch (did i really need to get salt & vinegar chips to the mix?). here i am thinking that if i book it home i can beat the boys and have twenty minutes to let it air out, when in reality, the air is stagnant. it’s like that awful song the cranberries sang in the early 90’s (do you have to let it lingerrrr). unfortunately, no amount of glade can cover up the smell of onions and hot peppers that were oh so delicious going in, but not so pretty on the outs.

& while i am on the topic, let’s talk farting. let’s say the boys are home when i have to make a run for the laboratory… do i put on music to disguise what could be a national tragedy in a man’s eyes? do i hold my breath and pray that the all familiar sound does not sneak out? or you know that sound of horses galloping out of their gates after they have been training for the kentucky derby all year? god forbid it sounds like that! the thought alone is horrifying.

i guess what i am trying to say is… ladies, before taking that dive into the deep end, make sure you do your research. living with guys may seem easier than living with girls, but there are downsides.

but who am i kidding? girls don’t poop.

elbow grease.

today i made 29 cents by sweeping out the closet. that’s almost enough to buy one of those plastic rings they sell in the machines when you walk into the local wal-mart.  yep, the same wal-mart where i just spent 89.93 on cleaning supplies, because apparently buying a $4 broom is out of the question if you are male.

anyway, my room was pretty much already clean and i only had to wash the walls. bleach them. why in god’s name there were dirty handprints everywhere was the question in the back of my head. maybe “the kid” was doing pushups on the dirty floor (remember the gum wrappers and bong water) and then decided to switch to wall mounts? maybe he liked boys and was often the “bottom bitch” during doggie style? who knows, but i blew through two magic erasers and i’ll tell you what… mr. clean can surely remove a scuff off of the wall, but his durability blows. my elbows were extremely greasy upon completion. as the smell of bleach lingered in the air and i looked around my clean room, i felt accomplished. i am sure casey anthony once felt the same way, although i don’t know if mr. clean can handle blood stains…. too soon?

i gathered my things ready to flee when B & C walked into the kitchen with a huge package of fresh lobster. “stay for dinner!” JACKPOT… if only I liked seafood. i thanked them for the offer, nicely declined, and headed out to lindsay’s to catch the season premier of One Tree Hill that we have been obsessing over for weeks.

tomorrow… I tackle the bathroom. anyone have a hazmat suit I could borrow?

remnants.

B is the guy who owns the house. i met him two times before deciding to take the plunge and move into a potential frat house. he seemed like a genuine guy with a good head on this shoulders so i thought why the hell not?! he gave me a key and told me i can start moving in things after the kid who was currently living with them moved out.

“the kid” moved out on monday. perfect timing. i wanted to clean everything before putting my prized possessions somewhere where they could potentially catch the bird flu.

i figured i would be walking into a war zone. we all know how guys are. but, to my surprise, the the room was all cleared out except for two crates and a desk. the crates were stacked on top of one another and topped off with a dirty towel. i am assuming the crates were his night stand (he had to put the towel on top so nothing went through the holes). then there was the desk. it had a perfect square where it was not dusty so I am assuming it was used a little less as a workspace, and a little more as an entertainment center. easy fix… throw out the crates and pawn off the desk to a willing bystander (whom happened to be C, the boy living in the basement).

after moping around the room for a bit, i realized my once white socks were now becoming black. the floor was covered in the strangest things: random ibuprofen tablets (“the kid” must have had a lot of headaches), trident gum wrappers (apparently he was a huge fan of the cinnamon flavor), and change (& lots of it…you’d think he would buy himself a decent nightstand with the coinage all over the damn floor). as I was mopping on my hands and knees, i came across random sticky spills…bong water. well, i don’t know if it was really bong water, but that is my best assumption from what i have seen so far (maybe the weed also helped his headaches?). who cares, the floor was now clean.

now it was time scrub the floorboards and dust bust the vents. this was by far the best part of cleaning. why? because there were the love letters stashed in the heating duct. old fashioned snail mail and cheesy hallmark cards. if you were wondering… yes, i read them and yes, i should have saved them, but let’s be real… i am not ready to make an appearance on HOARDERS. the love notes were a joke, though. she was just nag nag nagging. it was obvious that she loved him more than he loved her. makes me wonder… did he ever reply? does “the kid” have a heart?

tim & liv forever.

the new girl.

blah blah blah, awkward girl moves into a house with three random guys she met on craigslist, blah blah blah. you get it, i’m sure. when i first saw the hit show on my 13 inch tv that i still have from college, i thought “yea right… no girl would ever move in with three random guys unless she was a major whore or wanted to make a quick exit from the earth [from being murdered].” not true. how do i know? because i am the new girl.

after many failed attempts at making it in the music business, i decided it was time to head north for a hot minute and get my life back on track. i threw my shit into my 2001 hyundai elantra and trekked eight hours home to the small town i have been trying to get out of my entire life.

side note: i was speeding in a construction zone, got pulled over by a policeman on a bike (yes, you read that correctly), and was given a seat belt ticket. now i bet you are thinking, “a seat belt ticket for speeding in a construction zone?” the answer is yes, my friend, because i have mad flirting skills (or at least that’s what i tell myself when i head to the “clubs” every weekend with my friends who are like straight 10s across the board, while i am a lousy 4.6) & those flirting skills talked me out of a hefty tab and landed me a ticket that will be cleared from my record once paid. excuse me while i dust the dirt from my shoulder.

anyway, not the point…. i unloaded the rusty sedan and made myself comfortable at mommy’s house doing things like mastering the game of skip-bo and ruining all of my favorite t-shirts with ketchup stains from the shitty food i was consuming (don’t judge me… eating hot dogs in bed is hard)! after three days of drowning my sorrows away with fast food and shitty gossip magazines, my mother laid down the law. what i needed was a job & i needed it fast.

my best girlfriend from college got me an interview at a title company where she works just outside of chicago. i landed an interview and was offered the job the same day. it was not even a week of being home and i already had to move again. once again, i threw my stuff in my car and headed towards the windy city, away from the hot dogs in bed and the nagging mother. i scored an awesome four bedroom house with brand new appliances and a garage code! it had a pool in the backyard and a tiny dog that was breeded to make me look hip while walking down the street. home cooked meals every night! no chores! you guessed it… i moved in with my friend’s parents.

i got too comfortable. this was not the plan and i needed some freedom. don’t get me wrong, living with italians is fantastic, but if i ate one more piece of lasagna or tasted a single crumb from a canoli, i wouldn’t even fit into my fat pants. 

this is the part where i tell you that i couldn’t afford my own place. therefore, i searched on craigslist, found some random roommates who happened to be guys, and moved in.

let the magic happen, new girl.