Archive for the 'I am difficult' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 17 May 2012

On living in the boonies, why deodorant trumps chicken and how the man with no pants drove me to breakfast drinking.

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. And between them, they were wearing one pair of pants.

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.

Published by PaintingChef on 09 Sep 2011

My caps lock key and I mean every, single word of this.

Dear Sir in Section XX2 of Neyland Stadium on Saturday, September 3rd…

Hi there. You don’t know me because you never actually turned around and looked me in the eye during the game. And man… what a game, right? That rain! Didn’t you just want to cry every time there was another lightening strike and the game was delayed yet again? I swear… the way everyone was crammed into the concourse was giving me flashbacks to Club La Vila from 1994. And let’s be honest… I barely remembered that shit the next morning, let alone 17 (OH GOD I JUST DIED A LITTLE INSIDE) years later.

But I digress sir. Do you remember how we all shuffled back to our seats? Kind of like cattle and we were all doing the side step down the rows of bleachers with our butts all in each other’s faces? At any point as you passed in front of me sitting there, (no, actually I was STANDING there as I had kindly gotten up out of my seat to make way for you and your NEON YELLOW FANNY PACK as that is what nice people do) did you notice an odd little bump or crunch or earth shattering crack as you passed my me? No? Okay. No biggie.

HOWEVER… that sound was the sound that was made when you GROUND YOUR FUCKING HEEL OVER MY GODDAMN TOENAIL AND CAUSED ME WORLDS AND WORLDS OF TERRIBLE PAIN AND AGONY AND OH MY FUCKING GOD HOW DID YOU NOT FEEL IT!?!?

Dude. Asshole. Douchcanoe. Seriously. I immediately crumpled to the ground like I’d been whacked in the head with a frying pan. Then? THEN? I made the mistake of looking down. Let’s go back to your generation for a minute, shall we? Do you recall that football game where Joe Theisman broke his leg? And it was laying there all unholy and twisted like and the entire world grimaced and threw up in their mouths a little all at once and it was a huge feeling of unity and love for poor Joe who is now doing radio commercials for some investment guy? Well, granted, a toenail isn’t quite the same but I looked down and my nice, pretty red toenail was pointing straight back up at me. STICKING UP IN THE AIR! All “straight up now tell me do you want to love me forever” and I was like NO, Paula Abdul; I do NOT want to love you forever because I AM IN TOO MUCH PAIN AT THE MOMENT.

And then the bleeding started. How did you not notice the blood? The big pool of blood gushing from my toe and ruining my shoes and mixing with the rain and running down the aisles? That drunken guy next to me? He TOTALLY noticed the blood as he turned green and ran away and I never saw him again. There was much, much blood. So my sweet husband goes off to find something to help me and comes back with a band-aid. Oh yes. A single band-aid. I was unaware that band-aids magically gave blood transfusions these days but apparently they’ve stepped up their game a bit. He then helped me hobble to the first aid station after I told him just where he could stick his sad, single little band-aid. And yes… I did “accidentally” kick you on the way out. If “accidentally” now means TOTALLY ON PURPOSE.

So let’s be fair. I was already in a bad mood what with the super-long rain delay and the asshole security guard that confiscated my rum at the gate. I HAD NO RUM! I would advise you, kind sir, to never injure yourself at a football game as the first aid room is a bit of a joke. They did indeed have band-aids. There was even some Tylenol! Which I had to sign my first born child away to receive! The good news, however, was that I did find all the cops. They were in the first aid room. Eating Petro’s. Yummy, yummy Petro’s.

I also blame you, sir, for the near-death experience suffered by my sweet husband later that evening when he decided to take a look at my injury and try and remove the offending toe nail. I’m not entirely sure how that went but I do know that when I came to after blacking out from the pain he appeared to have been kicked in the head. It was most unfortunate and had I known what happened I would have felt extremely guilty were I not still upset about the band-aid incident. I thought for sure such a mortal injury would warrant, at the very least, some paper towels and a hot fudge sundae.

So now here I sit. With a jacked up big toe that has NO toenail as I had to find a podiatrist who would see me on short notice and perform a little surgery. (Dear doctor… thanks for the drugs) You suck, kind sir. And we will meet again in the future. And I WILL unapologetically stick my knees into your back repeatedly and make your general football watching experience less than stellar. And if you ask me why? I will UNWRAP MY TOE NUB AND MAKE YOU LOOK AT IT AND YOU WILL FEEL GUILTY!!

xoxo,
P-Chef.

PS…

Published by PaintingChef on 22 Jul 2011

How a television sent me to Lowe’s at 9:00 at night after my husband almost (understandably) killed me. And other bedtime stories.

The television needed dusting. We were in the middle of the Great Technology Migration of 2011 as our circa 1998 bedroom television was finally giving up and so we were moving the 2003 model from the living room into the bedroom and we FINALLY bought a nice, new, big, shiny LCD model for the living room. Never mind that said nice, new, shiny, flat model was roughly 6 inches (okay, fine, 8 inches) wider than the actual opening in our gorgeous built-in entertainment center. Patrick SWEARS he can fix it and as my sister reassured me, “It’s Patrick. He’ll do a good job. Chill the fuck out and just go get a pedicure or something while he’s cutting and sawing and painting and shoehorning… it’ll be better for EVERYONE if you aren’t there.” My sister is a rocket scientist and that’s pretty damn close to a doctor so I’m going to get a doctor-ordered pedicure.

The end.

Not really.

Also there was need for some sort of technical gobbeldy gook that I didn’t understand or care about but Patrick was all HD! GOOD PICTURE! BIG SCREEN! FOOTBALL SEASON! and I was all DYLAN MCKAY IN HI-DEF OKAY FINE I’M IN! and so we had to do a little moving around of things and switching TVs and other such mess that was just heavy and really, really dusty and I was a little afraid of losing a cat behind the bedroom entertainment center forever plus I also had to move my shoes so I was kind of annoyed.

And breathe.

The stone-age television was in the “purple room” which is what we call the third bedroom in our house as it has purple walls and also many, many chairs and also some boxes and is where things go to age for a year or so before we finally get around to throwing them away. (And the boxes we haven’t unpacked since we moved in. In 2008. But I refuse to throw them away because somewhere in one of those boxes is a really cute pink summery purse and I miss that purse but not enough to go digging for it. Also now that I think about I’m also missing a really cute black handmade purse from an antique shop) The second television was in our bedroom waiting to have all twelve thousand pounds of it hoisted into the bedroom entertainment center when Patrick decided it needed to be dusted first. (The giant ass new and shiny and pretty and secretly purple (I WIN! I WIN!) television was still in a box as it is too fragile to be breathed on by human mouths.)

And then shit went very, very, very horribly wrong.

“Where’s the pledge? I need to dust this television”

“Under the sink where it always is.”

“Hey Susannah? Have you noticed that there is a puddle of water under the sink?”

“Um… no? That’s where the cleaning stuff lives and I don’t clean, remember?”

“Yeah. Right. How could I forget? Well there is a puddle of water under here and something is leaking and this is very bad and I’m pretty sure that our sink is about to fall through the countertop because the underneath of the countertop is waterlogged from whatever is leaking.”

“Huh. Bet that wouldn’t happen to a granite countertop, would it?”

“Laser eye death stare and various offensive and very deserved hand gestures”

“So… what now?”

“Now I turn off the water to the sink and we fix this mess.”

“So… no water? For how long? Do we get a new sink? I don’t want another white one, they suck. Are we going to replace the countertops? I’d really like granite. Or quartz. We get a new faucet with the new sink, right? I can get rid of that pointless soap dispenser? Hey… do you think we can just make that whole section of the countertop bigger? You know we’re having people over for dinner on Sunday, right? SO this is going to need to be done by then, right?”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m probably going to perform the most justifiable homicide that ever was and ever will be.”

“Hey… don’t forget that this TV is sitting in the middle of the bedroom.”

I did not get a new sink. I did not get a new countertop. Patrick is quite certain that he can fix this and it will be fine until we can actually purchase new countertops. I did, however, get a new faucet as apparently the old one was what caused all the damage in the first place. The new faucet is in a box on the dining room table and there is still no water in the kitchen. Patrick has, however, refrained from killing me and he totally sprang for Zaxby’s for dinner once we walked out of Lowe’s at 9:30 last night.

He has also vowed to never dust again. The television is no longer in the middle of the bedroom floor and all the cats are accounted for.

Published by PaintingChef on 01 Apr 2011

Dell hates trees and mailmen. And now me.

Dear Dell Computers Marketing Geniuses…

Hi. It’s me again. We talk A LOT, I know. I call you every other week and at this point, I anticipate that I have my very own big red warning light in your customer service department that I like to envision as something that starts flashing with horns and sirens when I call to ask you, YET AGAIN, to remove 13 of the 14 address variations you have for this place where I work.

You? Send out a LOT of mail. Full color, glossy mail. On a weekly basis. And every single time that I walk to my mailbox and see that you have sent another 14 catalogs or special financing offers to my office when contains, on a crowded day, SIX people, I get stabby. Just ask Patrick.

So I come in and stomp to my desk and call your number, which I now know by heart and have another conversation with someone who speaks very broken English and once again request to have all these addresses removed. Only to be told once again that it will be done immediately. This dance has been going on for over a year and guess what? My fucking feet hurt. I’ve unsubscribed online. By fax. Phone. Email. Carrier pigeon. Fuzzy kitten-gram and unicorn farts. I feel as though I’m being ignored and it’s starting to grate.

Time for a new plan. I have a box. And I’m going to save every piece of that mail for 6 months. Then I’m going to send it back to you. And when that doesn’t work as it surely won’t because it’s an exercise in futility and will only cost me to ship it and will cure nothing but my irritation? I’m going to start writing RETURN TO SENDER on every piece of mail you send me and drop it back in the mailbox.

Actually… maybe I’ll try this with ALL my junk mail. Would that work? If not, I’ll just send it all to Dell. Everyone! Send your junk mail to Dell!

xoxo,
P’Chef.

Published by PaintingChef on 18 Nov 2010

BUSTED. And here I thought I was so clever.

“Patrick, why are you walking around the office in your socks?”

“Because I went to one jobsite and got muddy and then drove to another and stayed muddy. I thought I was done so I got un-muddy and changed my shoes to the non-muddy ones but then I ended up making a detour and got muddy again.”

“That tells me one thing.”

“That I’m guilty of poor planning?”

“NO! And you have no idea how much it excited me to say this. I feel as though my way of life is somehow about to be validated.”

“Should I sit down?”

“No. You need more shoes. You need to be more like me.”

“Really. And how many pairs of shoes would you say that you have on your person right this second.”

“Um..”

“And you don’t get to count the ones in the trunk of your car in the boxes that you think I don’t know are there.”

“Damn. You weren’t supposed to see those.”

I am in the midst of writing a charming entry about my foray into the world of FREE RENTAL BOOKS (do you know of this place? I am astounded at how they have changed since my childhood!) when I realized that perhaps it would be best served with some photography assistance.

So what I am wanting to say is this. Yes, I was GOING to post something of substance (or at least something that allowed you to laugh at me a little because sometimes I am ever so clueless) but I decided to take some pictures this evening so that you would really have an idea of just what I’m talking about.

Until then… for the record… those shoes in the trunk have been there for a while because I’m a little scared of them. The heels are a good 2 inches higher than I thought they would be and apparently I don’t have quite the use for purple plaid peep-toe 4 inch heels that I initially thought. Who knew?

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