Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

As my credit card history will plainly tell you… I’m a beauty product junkie. For someone with a degree in marketing and a background in advertising, I’m WOEFULLY susceptible to commercials, magazine glossies and Sephora emails. It’s a tragedy and will eventually bankrupt me. (Patrick assures me that even as a joke, this is most definitely NOT funny.)

But there are a few areas in which I am steadfastly loyal and don’t handle change all that well. By which I mean that I can be reduced to a quivering puddle in the middle of the aisle at a grocery or drug store at any given moment. My areas of brand-loyalty are specifically and in no particular order: deodorant, razors, toothpaste (which I feel no need to discuss as it hasn’t yet broken my heart) and tampons.

I used to add face cleanser to this list until I hit the age of 30 and realized that it might be time for my skin care regimen to include more words like “anti-aging” and “moisturizing” and “exfoliating” and less words like “Noxema” and “rubbing alcohol”. For about 18 months I was a skin care slut but then I met Dr. Brandt and have since begun another long term relationship.

As for the rest of you assholes…

Never before have the razors given me trouble but recently my standard, no-frills pink razors have been overrun with those of the distinctly frilly variety. Most troubling? The mass presence of the dreaded pivoting head. I may as well just filet myself open and bleed out because in my less than capable hands, a pivoting razor is a deadly weapon to everything except actual hair. It’s a phenomenon I can’t even begin to explain. I’ve found that I can use the men’s version but they are blue and far too boyish for me to embrace with anything more than a grudging and pouting forced acceptance.

Tampons have recently undergone some sort of evolution that necessitates a monthly package redesign thus ensuring that I’m incapable of buying the same thing twice. Whatever happened to my nice normal cardboard applicators and lack of anything with pearls or scents? Usually a small archeological expedition to the back of the bottom shelf will supply me with the blue crate of cotton I’m in search of but my rampant optimism will not allow me to stock up with more than my current need. I blame infertility. And OBVIOUSLY… Brenda Walsh.

But can we PLEASE talk about the number one bane of my health and beauty shopping existence? The one item that will cause me to convulse in public and send me screaming through the aisles on a regular basis? I’m convinced. The friendly assholes at Secret are trying to kill me. Shopping for deodorant has become such a fucking chore that just thinking about it right now is making me dry heave a little. For forever and a day, I was a Secret Platinum Protection Soft Solid Powder Fresh girl. And it was NEVER an issue. It was always available and whether I was at Walmart, Walgreens, Kroger’s, CVS or Target, it didn’t matter… I could get deodorant. And perhaps since I was never looking for anything other than my one true love, I failed to notice that the aisle was becoming more and more crowded with the most ridiculous products you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

I didn’t notice because I was in a monogamous deodorant relationship. Secret because that’s what I’ve always used. Platinum Protection because it can’t be ignored… I’m a bit of a sweat-er in the warmer months. Soft Solid because I like the clickity-click and sometimes that hard solid is a wee bit painful. And Powder Fresh because nobody’s pits need to smell anything other than clean.

But lately, and by lately I mean over the past 8 months or so, finding my one true love has been a hit or miss kind of situation. I’ve been forced to learn new terms. Deal with new packaging. And the worst part of all? I’ve come face to face with what some of you are smearing under your arms. Sparkle? Gel? Vanilla Chai Latte? Coco Butter? Really? Do you want to lift your arm and suddenly wonder if a Starbucks opened up in your sleeve? A SPARKLY Starbucks? Madagascar Bazaar? Granted I may have no idea just what a bazaar in Madagascar is like and perhaps its a perfectly lovely experience. But I’m quite certain that I don’t want the olfactory essence of that event wafting out from under my arms.

Pear? Cherries? Peaches? Cucumbers? Oranges? Are we making a fruit salad or dealing with wetness and odor? Oh… both… really? Well aren’t you just a fucking multi-tasker? And all the florals? Really? Jasmine and Sweet Mint? Gardenia Blossom? Rockstar Rose? Bella Blossom Bouquet? Now you’re just making shit up. There is an entire generation of women walking around among us and when they lift their arms, they smell like a flower shop or the produce aisle. Why does that disturb me so much?

But this situation isn’t just irritating… it’s becoming expensive. I’ve bought four different types of deodorant in the past three days. Finding a new one true love is looking more and more impossible. Dove? Secret? Mitchum? I can’t trust anyone anymore. So if you are grocery shopping in the greater Knoxville area and trip on someone in the deodorant aisle going slowly insane… say hi, okay?

February 8th, 2010 – An Experiment in Jury Duty:

7:45 AM – Leave house in fairly cute and professional looking outfit armed with books (yes, plural), snacks and “Get Out of Jail Free” letter as written by me and signed by Boss/Dad. Feeling confident in knowledge that I will be perfectly on time. Am leaving far too early but I’ve met me and shit always happens. SOMEHOW, it WILL take me 45 minutes to get there when it should only take twenty.

7:50 AM – There are NO CARS on the road. I’ve already passed every Starbuck’s option. Should I turn around? I should have plenty of time.

7:55 AM – Turning around will end in disaster. Press on fair child!

8:07 AM – Well shit. I’m here. Should I go back for coffee? Breakfast? A shoe shine? Try to think about what’s in the back of the fridge that could possibly be creating that funky smell that I start to notice if I leave the door open too long?

8:10 AM – Screw it. I’ll get lost once I’m in there anyway. Gather up important items (books, snacks, Blackberry, letter) and head to door.

8:11 AM – Notice several large hanging signs “NO GUNS!!!” “NO KNIVES!!!” Stop reading after confirming I am carrying neither gun nor knife and appear to be only person in immediate vicinity in possession of all my own teeth. Assume this will make short security line a breeze. Oddly enough, it does not appear that SHOES are required.

8:13 AM – Should have read rest of sign as am now walking all the way back to car to deposit Blackberry where it will not offend anyone despite not even being turned on.

8:15 AM – Security line. Again. Am harassed endlessly for tweezers in purse while toothless wonder quickly steps around me with a met lab strapped to her back as her baby guzzles from a Jack Daniels bottle. I do not help my situation any when I suggest that officer just keep the tweezers and encourage him to investigate his eyebrow situation.

8:17 AM – Find Jury Room quickly. By following signs. How novel.

8:20 AM – Odd. Am only 10 minutes early yet am only non-criminal-type person in this hallway. Shrug and have a seat to read for a bit.

8:22 AM – Am asked by criminal-type in hallway if “these glasses make him look innocent.”

8:24 AM – Am asked by different criminal-type if the book I’m reading is a cookbook. “No. No sweetie. ‘Methland’ is NOT a cookbook.”

8:25 AM – Am assured by police officer accompanying little Miss Martha Stewart of the Meth World that yes, she is actually that stupid.

8:27 AM – Criminal-types all file into the courtroom at the direction of perky person with excellent hair.

8:28 AM – Start to consider bangs.

8:29 AM – Continue to consider bangs and mourn lack of Blackberry on which to do research. Melissa of Sarcomical just got lovely bangs. Very Zooey Deschanel. Could I pull that off without Melissa’s epic cheekbones? Is hair plagiarism allowed?

8:30 AM – Am jolted out of bangs reverie when I notice the continued lack of other jurors. Fear impending incarceration if I am late to jury duty due to being LOST in the wrong place.

8:31 AM – Have to pee.

8:34 AM – Return to first floor to speak with clerk and inquire as to location of jury pool.

8:36 AM – Am idiot. Should have first called number as plainly stated on jury pamphlet. Do not have jury duty Monday or Tuesday. Am told to call back on Tuesday evening. Clerk possibly thinks I’m functionally retarded. She obviously hasn’t been up to the 3rd floor today.

8:38 AM – Leave. Ignore the dirty looks from the officer who has still paid no attention to the fact that his forehead is in imminent danger of being eaten by a very hungry caterpillar.

8:40 AM – Drive to work. Stopping at Starbucks this time dammit.

8:50 AM – Arrive at work. Receive ridicule from a tag team of husband AND father. Awesome.

Hey! I have an idea! Let’s talk about something other than my uterus!

“But Susannah. You have been teasing us with that possibility for MONTHS now. You never have anything to say and when you do it is TRAGICALLY uterian-centric. We have lost all interest in your ovaries, uterus and cervix. Unless they manage to form a kickline and bust out in ‘Yankee Doodle’ while waving their top hats, count us out. (But by all means, should that happen… you know… take pictures!)”

I know. But I need your help. I’m begging you. You see, it’s happened again. I’ve been called for jury duty. And this time? Its not just a good distraction for someone who works part time and makes zero contribution to her household well-being. I legitimately need to get out of it. People actually DEPEND on me and my job. These are uncharted waters, my friends.

Here is my working list of ways to get out of jury duty.

1. Answer all questions with movie quotes and refuse to elaborate until the attorneys guess (CORRECTLY) which movie it is from.

2. Take a fruit basket and a tennis racket. Don’t hit fruit at anyone… just make sure they know I’m READY. Consider wearing tennis skirt for better presentation.

3. Object to everything anyone says. Loudly. In German.

4. Communicate solely via Etch-a-Sketch.

5. Take 5 pairs of shoes and get up to change them every 20 minutes.

6. Pretend to be a ninja. Insist on being addressed as Adiro Nokushifu as this is obviously my ninja name. Hand out business cards with phonetic spelling just to be helpful.

7. Bring a monkey.

Obviously this is a work in progress but I feel like I’m off to a good start here… what do you think?

Oh my head. She rattles with so many things to talk about. Dealing with the first holiday season since the loss of my grandmother. The CRAZY anxiety I’m having over what is looking like a promising cycle and how I still have SEVEN WHOLE DAYS until I will know if I’m knocked up. The sinus infection that took up right where my bought with the swine flu left off. The wonderful success that was Thanksgiving and the tingles I got each time my mom, in her Cabernet haze, would tell me how proud she was of me.

These are all such wonderful topics of conversation. But they are not what prompted me to grace you with my presence. (HAH!) No… today I want to talk about Christmas trees. Specifically? My secret hatred of them and how it makes Patrick die a little inside.

I adore looking at a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. The lights, the ornaments that each have their own little story, it all just sparkles. And I’m sure that when I was little I also totally enjoyed decorating the tree and remembering why each ornament was special as we unpacked them. My parents have a collection of wooden, hand-painted ornaments that were obviously made from some sort of kit that I always loved. These ornaments are from their first Christmas together and I can just picture them in my head laughing and having a ball as they painted and glued and glittered.

But at some point in my life, something changed and I realized that DUDE. Putting up the Christmas tree is just a bunch of WORK that is better delegated to kids. However NOTHING matches my hatred of taking DOWN a Christmas tree. Going on that painful treasure hunt through the prickly branches (because you stopped watering the tree four days ago and are, at this point, scared to plug in the lights) to find each ornament. Unstringing and untangling those damn lights. And finally? Getting that stupid tree out the door in a wake of pine needles that will clog your vacuum cleaner and poke your bare feet for the next three months.

Somehow, I think I would be able to handle the whole Christmas tree mess better if I were allowed to have a fake tree. Pre-lit! No needles! And let’s be honest. Fake trees have come quite a ways. They no longer look like a tube stuck full of bright green toilet brushes. They are lush and full and beautiful and did I mention PRE-LIT!?!?

Sadly, I know better than to even approach this subject with Patrick as I would suddenly become the bitch who killed Christmas. You see, Patrick’s family had a Christmas tree farm. And every year we go to what is left of the Christmas tree farm and select and cut down a tree. (By which, OBVIOUSLY, I mean I point to the three closest to the car and say “one of those” while Patrick manual labors the cut it down and tie it to the roof of the car. I? Am an EXCELLENT “stander and watcher”)

At some point I may broach the subject with him, then again I might not. The funny thing is that Patrick is actually ALLERGIC to Christmas trees. By the time ours is lit and decorated, he looks like he tried to put him arms through a shredder. But never once have I heard him complain about it. I guess the only thing I can compare it to is my love of pointy, stabby boots. I love them too much to not wear them.

A good wife would let him have his tree…

“I just can’t imagine what a stressful way of life that must be, keeping up with all those wives and kids.”

“I know, right? Imagine having THREE MORE of ME!”

“I’m sorry… what? I think I just blacked out from post-traumatic potential stress disorder.”

“No seriously though Patrick, if you ever do decide to find an additional wife can you PLEASE make sure she cleans?”

“Like… you want her to do floors?”

“No. YOU do floors. I want her to do windows. And kitchens. And laundry. And dusting. And dishwashers. She doesn’t have to cook but if she could clean up the kitchen afterwards I would appreciate it.”

“I’ll file that one away for future reference in the oh-so-likely event that I acquire an additional wife.”

“Seriously. Tell her I’ll totally pay her.”

“Wouldn’t that make her a hooker?”

“Only if she does it naked.”

“Fair enough.”