Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Given this recent relocation adventure (stay with me… believe it or not this is NOT about moving!) Patrick and I (read: Susannah in one of her lesser intelligent moments which she then subsequently blamed on Patrick and then started writing in the third person? What the hell?) decided that since we were all now in the same town, we would have our parents and our grandmothers over for dinner on Mother’s Day.

Lovely, right? The sort of thing that good children do.

And believe me, this was one well planned event. I knew an entire week ago EXACTLY what I was serving. I had planned flowers, wine, music and even knew where everyone should sit. I was on the fucking ball. Coffee-rubbed beef tenderloin on the grill (oh Bobby Flay… you grilling sexy minx), spinach casserole that I am FAMOUS for, rosemary potatoes, delicious salad with apples, feta and homemade honey vinaigrette and my recently perfected cheesecake for dessert (hey… I don’t have a fat ass for nothing my friends… I sacrifice my physical appearance to feed you perfectly creamy cheesecake.)

People were coming over at 6 and I was aiming for dinner at 6:30. Earlier than I would like but Patrick’s grandmother gets VERY tired and I am incapable of getting my shit together to serve lunch. Not to mention that the in-laws give me pretty dirty looks when I break out all that wine at noon. Party poopers.

I was doing good, sticking to my loose and flexible schedule/timeframe that allowed me to go out Sunday morning and get the flowers to make bouquets for everyone. (And by the way? All you slackers at the store picking through those ugly last few bouquets of overpriced roses? You suck. Take a few minutes, pick out some different flowers from over here where I’m standing all by my lonesome, put them together in a bouquet and you won’t give your mother flowers that scream of “I woke up with a hangover or possibly still drunk and then I remembered it was Mother’s Day and here… look… half dead roses. Love you mom.”). I have one more fast, unscheduled (but totally manageable) mad dash out the CVS when I realize that the movers mutilated my entire stock of adorable wrapping paper and unless my mother and Patrick’s mother are suddenly about that have a baby boy or want to get into the Christmas spirit, I should run to the store.

And then everything. Fell. Apart.

Because guess what you kind of need to get everything ready for dinner for 9 people?

Electricity my friends. ELECTRICITY.

I just took a look into my fridge. I’m not certain because it was a little hard to see past the wine, champagne, heavy whipping cream, leftover fajitas, assorted imported cheese and various random sticks of butter but there are probably some vegetables in there somewhere.

Obviously the fridge needed some help. Fast. This had to be dealt with in a drastic and immediate way. There needed to be less crap in there.

So… I ate a piece of the cheesecake.

I have a love-hate relationship with exercise and any sort of physical exertion in general. By this I mean that I absolutely LOVE to hate it. I hate to sweat. I hate being out of breath. I don’t like how my feet look in tennis shoes and I don’t get that “high” from a good long run on a beautiful day. I love a beautiful day but what I love most about it is lying outside reading a book and washing down a cupcake with a cold frosty fruity boozy drink while tanning my legs into suitcase leather.

I assure you that this comes as a surprise to nobody.

But last week, Patrick and I got life insurance quotes…

And people? They were NOT PRETTY.

Apparently our sloth-like and slovenly lifestyle has shown the first signs of catching up with us. Which would explain why Sunday afternoon found us committing to a substantial withdrawal from our bank account every month for the next three years in the form of a gym membership. Let’s get one thing straight… I ain’t gonna like it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my waistline is hiding under here somewhere and I suppose if I have nothing better to do then I should maybe think about finding it.

My first personal training session is today. I have decided on the total honesty approach in that I will assure this trainer from the start that I’m not going to like her. I don’t want to be there and I will NOT be enjoying this. I am GIVING UP 90210 FOR THIS TORTURE. But in spite of that, I am making a commitment to her and more importantly a commitment to myself. Devoid of personal empowerment mantras and “go team Susannah” cheers because I’m trying to keep down my breakfast here kids. I’m going to do this. It’s time.

But if that bitch lays one paw on my sweet tooth… I’ll sit on her.

Dear self…

Do you feel that uncomfortable sensation about the waist-ish area? Those are your pants. And they are telling you that last week’s “All Peanut Butter Truffles, All The Time” diet was ill-advised. Eat an apple and take a walk you dumb whore.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Peanut Butter Truffles…

I miss you already but you are evil. Please don’t be on sale at Target tomorrow.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Pants…

Fuck you.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Pretty Flowy Summer Dresses…

Hello gorgeous. Let’s make out.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

“So what I’m looking for is something for like parched hair. Or ‘so dry it might be a fire hazard hair.’”

“I’m not seeing anything like that.”

“Well not down THERE you aren’t. That’s the cheap shampoo and conditioner. You need to come up here and stand by me with the good stuff. It’s better because it costs more. And has a funnier name.”

“I cannot tell you how many things I find disturbing about that statement.”

“Look. You agreed to come grocery shopping with me. So buck up and help. I only wash my hair like twice a week so I don’t feel guilty spending thirty bucks on shampoo and conditioner. You came to terms with that a long time ago. Are you going to help me find some or not?”

“How exactly did I come to terms with that?”

“By not saying anything about it.”

“I never knew!”

“So not my fault…”

“I’m leaving. I have a sudden need to stand by the beer. And maybe the charcoal.”

“Wait!! Smell this one before you go? Do you think it smells pretty?”

“That’s it woman! We are going to Home Depot next.”

“Oh good… can we look at flowers?”