Painting Chef – Cheaper Than Therapy

There are a few things about myself that I have finally learned to just admit…

First of all? I live in the boonies. On purpose. Yes me. The girl who dreamed of brownstone apartments within walking distance of everything and no need to ever own a car (which probably had something to do with me wrecking 4 of them in quick succession). I totally blame Barefoot in the Park. My ass would be so much smaller if I had to walk up all those steps every day.

But I don’t live in the city. Or really even A city. I live way out the end of a ridiculously curvy road and the directions to my house include the phrase “Turn right after the mental institution”.

Additionally? I’m lazy. I do thing like shower at night so that I can sleep an extra 45 minutes in the morning. I am always running late because if the question is of me rolling around in bed or getting up and organizing myself to make the rest of the day run smooth, well…. IMMA BE ROLLIN’. This leads to me frequently forgetting to set something out of the freezer for dinner because those thirty seconds are dedicated to putting on deodorant instead. Deodorant always trumps chicken.

But the 3 times a week that I walk into Patrick’s office around 4:00 and sit down with a heavy sigh and ask him what I want for dinner can wear on a man and I think he is, in clinical terms… OVER IT. Because have you ever run into the grocery store (THAT IS NOWHERE NEAR YOUR HOUSE BECAUSE YOU LIVE IN THE BOONIES) to pick up one thing for dinner and walked out thirty fifty bucks lighter? I have. And still I manage to only buy dinner for one night and like… some cheese.

(What’s for dinner? CHEESE, MOTHERFUCKER.)

This happens to me every summer. I do so well all winter making soups and breads and roasts and delicious things but then it becomes summer and all I want is a popsicle and some wine and Patrick is all “I need protein” and I’m like “Here’s some bacon, sorry it’s frozen” and then we just have some pudding instead.

Last year we got a Dollar General close to our house. Like DIRECTLY on the way home and I cannot tell a lie… I spent close to an hour one day learning just what the Dollar General carried in those measly 3 grocery aisles just so that I would know what I was dealing with if it ever came to that and what I discovered is that while the options are varied, it kind of all boils down to macaroni and cheese or tacos.

REGARDLESS… Dollar General. And I was excited because when I run out of toilet paper I have an option other than stealing a roll from the wine store…

(Also? There is a wine store. And they knew my name approximately 4 hours after we moved in. It only took that long because there was a shift change.)

(Also again? I never stole toilet paper from the wine store. They were down to their last roll and we aren’t on Survivor here… I went to the gas station and paid $12 for a four pack like everyone else in that situation)

And until this morning, the route to my house also took you by this…

I’m sorry… you can’t read that? Well it says “I’M FREE! Just waiting on my next big job.” And it was there until this morning because as I drove past it, I saw three guys loading it up into a truck. Two of them had beers. The third was eating chicken wings.

I laughed until I realized that this means the man in no pants eating chicken wings while loading a free toilet into a truck at 8 AM at least has a wife who feeds him protein.

I went to the wine store for breakfast.

I swear… I’ve been writing something for like 4 days now. Life is whipping my ass. I am going to Mexico in less than a month and I will be spending an entire blissful week on the beach while a cabana boy brings me fruity beverages. I decided to let Patrick go too… because I’m not an asshole. I bet you didn’t know that about me.

But seriously… there was a toilet on the side of the road and it made me have to tell you a story about where I live. I’m working on that shit but then my dad keeps asking me to do my job. And then Patrick does the same thing and I reconsider my generous gesture of allowing him to go to Mexico with me.

The travel agent told me I would not be decapitated by a drug cartel while I was there. I’m holding her to that.

It is becoming increasingly clear to me that this whole weight loss thing has gone about as far as it is going to go without me putting in a ton of effort. I have to be honest… up until this point, I’ve kind of coasted. And while the shrinking of my fat, cottage cheese ass has led to me being naturally more active, I haven’t made any huge strides in the exercise department.

As much as it pains me to say, I think the time has come for that to change…

Here’s the problem. Despite my very active past, I have exercise. I loathe it. I despise sweating and if you don’t mind, I would very much like to just sit here on the couch with my puppies and indulge in this all day Veronica Mars marathon, thank you very much. It’s not like I’m hooked to a cake IV the whole time (is that a thing? A cake IV?) but I’m probably not running in place either. Does getting up to pee count? Shifting position on the couch? Yeah… I didn’t think so.

As mentioned, I do have a very active history. I have been a dancer, runner, swimmer, ice skater and aerobics instructor. I worked at a gym all through high school and the majority of college and, in general, I kept shit under control. But not because I enjoyed it. (The exercise part, I mean… we’ll get to the rest in a minute.) I did it because I liked how it made my ass look in those jeans. That’s pretty much it.

With the exception of the dancing and ice skating. I loved those. I would immerse myself in the movement and the music and the way they kind of flowed together and took control of my body. And laugh if you will but I LIKE the way my permanently jacked up feet feel no pain and allow me to wear those ridiculous shoes.

Which leads us to this…

And these…

And I can’t lie… I’m a perfect cocktail of fear, excitement and anticipation… I kind of feel like another lost part of me is finding its way home again.

Somewhere in the back of my head, deep down in my subcockles, it’s starting to wake up. That little voice… the one that says maybe it’s time to start thinking about it again. Not yet up to a pounding, incessant “BABY BABY BABY” roar but a little tingle.. an inkling. Just something out there that says, yeah… maybe… let’s shyly approach each other and avoid eye contact.

Let’s fourth grade it, if you will…

I’m unwilling to commit. Is that a problem? I’m not 100% sold and I feel like a hypocrite because there was a time that I was. And then when nothing (nothing, nothing, nothing… always with the nothing) happened I figured, okay… this is maybe good? For a reason? Yet I cry all the time so what the hell? How can I have been so certain I wanted something and been willing to dive headfirst into doing whatever it took to achieve that and then just… walk away?

I’m not religious. At all. Which you all know all too well… In fact, that’s a whole new fun issue that has cropped up between me and the in-laws because of a (STUPID) morning buzz wherein I deviated from my M.O. of smile and nod. I should have known better. (shaking that whole mess off… moving on)

But while not religious, I do have a strong belief in a… plan? (Is that the word? I search for words so much more than I used to lately. It almost feels like an old friend betraying me, I can’t explain it… probably because I can’t find the words.) But I think it’s more of a plan in the fuzzy, obtuse sort of way if that makes sense. I’ve not been ready. I thought I was ready, I was certain. But they didn’t happen and maybe that was on purpose? And had things gone differently, we would have managed and done wonderfully, I have no doubt.

And yet doubt is all I have now. I’ve thought I was in the right place before. Many times. So now all I know is doubt. Uncertainty. Fear. Plain and simple. I’m scared shitless. I can’t go through it again. In any fashion. So is the safest and smartest thing to not even try? Fear and doubt. Doubt that it will work. Fear that it will. Neither is good… there used to be hope.

I stopped because I wanted to be ME again. And while that’s gone great, and I’m so much happier and healthier and just… better. Closer to me (but not there yet). I don’t think I ever anticipated losing that need that defined me. But it’s changed somehow, softened? I hesitate to call it ambivalence. Are you even ALLOWED to be ambivalent about children? Fertility treatments? Adoption?

I love my life now. I’m not searching for something to round it out. I don’t feel like anything is missing. So… do I really WANT to change that? Yeah… probably… I think I do. But what if I don’t? What if I’m not sure. What is what I think is happiness is just those twin whores fear and doubt?

Ugh. I have no idea.

It happened twice and didn’t think a damn thing of it. Come home from work, stop to get the mail and there wasn’t anything there.

“Huh… that’s odd… guess I won’t peruse Anthropologie on the crapper and design a fictional party…moving on…” And that was the end of it.

(Also? SHUT UP. You totally do it too.)

But I should have thought about it. We’ve lived in this house for FOUR YEARS. And I get more crap in the mail than anyone ever should. I’m on EVERY mailing list that exists. There is ALWAYS mail.

And then it started. Patrick went to get the mail one gorgeous Saturday morning while we were in the midst of planning an absolutely wonderful day on a gorgeous morning and our little cocoon of safety and trust exploded.

Sure, when it started with Lowe’s and Radio Shack I could be funny and try and chalk it up to Patrick in a fugue state decided to suddenly shop. But then it was Citibank. Apple. Wal-mart. Over and over. Someone using his name. Birthday. Social Security number. Someone out there who knew all this about my husband.

It wasn’t me. How was that possible? I’M the one who puts it all out there. The oversharer who writes first and thinks later. Why wasn’t it me? Because someone stole our mail. They were at our house. They discarded my Sephora mailers and the Pottery Barn catalogs. Somehow they found what they needed with my husband’s name on it. And they proceeded to try and systematically ruin his good name.

We think we were lucky. We caught it fast. We tried to play detective and we set up a camera to try and catch them coming back. No luck… unless a bumble bee happens to be the culprit.

I had grand plans to try and make this something to laugh about, I really did. But the truth is, it just feels like such a violation. The police are no help. We’ve been told repeatedly to file a report so that there is a documentable trail of this whole mess but nobody will listen. We got a post office box. We are watching our credit reports with eagle eyes.

But mainly I’m just angry. I’m really, really angry.