Archive for the 'All About Me' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Oct 2017

Just spilling. It’s been that long so buckle the fuck in.

That’s the thing about this whole smartphone era…when you realize you want to sit down and actually fucking WRITE…you have to go through ten thousand steps in the process and somewhere in there, you’re all “PATRICK! You’d better fucking bring me cheesecake before you come home” and look at that…two years later and two fucks in the first paragraph. You’ve missed me, right? Admit it.

So. I recently spent almost $200 on concert tickets to see 311 and neither I NOR Patrick watched the whole concert because our kid went crazy. Again.

Hey. We have a kid. In November of this year, she will have been ours free and clear for almost 2 years. It’s amazing how that happens, right? Fuck I’ve missed this. I think I need this again. I don’t know how else to get it out. So we adopted Abi. I’m not even going to sugar coat it because chances are, the four or five of you left that actually still have this left in whatever you replaced google reader with (FUCK…did I renew this domain? I don’t even remember) know everything because the Facebook and the Instagram already know everything about her but WHATEVER this is in me and bubbling out and I cannot stop.

We adopted Abi. She is amazing. She is the child I was supposed to have and I adore her. I am her mama. But I am a terrible mama. I am so mad at her right now. I’m sitting here in my cute dress with my perfect wedges in the foyer or maybe still on the porch and my perfect makeup in ruins and honestly I may have ripped the choker off in the backseat of the Uber but it was a 311 concert so I wore a choker but I heard they were totally a thing now anyway and FUCK. Sorry. Patrick just called me and he was like…yes, I’ll bring you cheesecake because sometimes the only answer is cheesecake.


We adopted Abi. She is my blues eyed, strawberry blonde dream. She is my girl. She is my heart. She is so very broken. (pause for whiskey)

(I drink Whiskey now, BTW)

Abi is my daughter. We got to change her middle name after the adoption and so now her middle name is the name I always wanted to give my little girl.. She is my heart. She is my world. And about an hour ago, I would have traded her for…fucking anything, I don’t know.

My daughter may be bipolar. She may have schizophrenia. Her genetics would point to either of those. In stead of just the sarcasm and assholery and knack for engineering that would be the situation were it just my genetics and Patrick’s involved. (Fuck…it’s hard to find my voice again but it’s coming back to me slowly…) She is the textbook definition of ODD but I’m not sure that’s really even a thing? Anxiety. PTSD. ADHD. On paper she looks like alphabet soup. But she is my girl. She is my heart. And I am so mad at her right now that I just want to scream but instead it brought me here.

(For reference…the last thing that brought me here was Anastacia Motherfucking Campbell. Which…by the way… WTF STACEY??? Boo…you whore. I was cleaning out my bathroom drawer the other day and I ran across the amazon package of pipettes and small bottles I’d bought because we were going to share perfume collections because we both had weird obsessions and FUCK OFF THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU FUCKING ANASTACIA CAMPBELL, I WILL GET TO YOU IN DUE COURSE)

My girl. You guys. She is the one that I didn’t know was mine. She is the one that was born the same day I was having a wretched miscarriage. When we’d gotten to the point that I was like…It’s even too much for my blog. She was destined to me mine from the moment she took her first breathe, I imagine.) I will not bore you with the details of our fight for her. I made that mistake once when Patrick and I were in Mexico and I accidentally turned into that old person drunk over-sharer and I still have nightmares about the look that that cute newlywed couple gave me two nights later in the restaurant. But…whatever…I’m not scarred. Nope. Not me.

Patrick just called me. I answered the phone and was like “I’m writing again. Bring me cheesecake.” He said… FINALLY.” Was there ever in the universe a person more mine and for me than him? Absofuckinglutely not.

This is so long but we have so much to catch up on.

My girl…she is…damaged. She’s been seeing a therapist and an NP who put her on Prozac and…I don’t know…I think that made it worse? Lord knows I’m not going to discount the usefulness of pharmaceuticals these days. I spend 5 minutes every Tuesday night (FUCK…that’s tonight…) filling up my weekly pill sorter (PINK! So cute!) with the various drugs that help me make it through the week (Buspar, Wellbutrin, Xanax, etc.)

I’ve just made the executive decision that the only thing I’m going to do before I post this is spell and grammar check it. I NEED this outlet. Blogs are dead. Obviously. I mean, even Dooce hardly ever posts anymore. (Amalah is the only reliable one and, quite honestly, I probably need to pick her brain about IEPs) But that said, I just…I need to spill.

She flipped out again. I don’t know how else to explain it. My girl. My heart. If things are just so, you cannot tell her “no.” But I REFUCKINGFUSE to have the child that will not be told no. So here we are. With the “I hate mom and dad” (she spelled everything right I counted it as a win because STANDARDS LOWERED) scrawled on the wall (in washable marker because I value that now) and the wooden desk chair (that I’ve had since I was her age and my parents only recently gave her along with the desk that I remember having where I stored the Michael Jackson “BAD” cassette in one of the drawers) thrown over the balcony of her loft (OMG, house…loft, too big, kitchen reno, WTF is wrong with me, cannot even go into that, maybe another time but probably not) and splintered into pieces (FUCK…I HAVE TO PEE…HOLD PLEASE)

I just saw myself in the mirror. It was fucking terrifying. DID YOU KNOW THAT I’M FORTY??? I look every bit of it. Just so you know. Also I should have taken my mascara off before I started crying but oops…

FUCK. Do I scroll back and read? I don’t know. I’m thinking no. Word says I’m already over a thousand words. My girl is so angry. At the slightest thing that even hints at a “no” she will kick and scream and bite and hit and kick and throw shit and FUCK UP YOUR WORLD and you never know when it is coming. (I need more whiskey…I don’t, actually, it is 10 pm and I DO have to work tomorrow) We have a new after school nanny (we have an after-school nanny now. We have a housekeeper too. We are people like that. I apologize. Shit happens.) (BUT…I promise you that REGARDLESS of being one of THOSE people, I am still wholly and fully disgusted by the state of…I cannot even say it…that…THING squatting in the White House and we will get into that in due course because I’ve really missed this outlet) So we are at dinner and I get a call from the sweet sitter, the lovely and perfect girl who has been at our beck and call and who, I ASSURE you, I will NEVER hear from again, telling me that Abi has lost her fucking shit. So there we are at the table. Me. Patrick. Work colleague/vendor who looks alarmingly like Jason Bateman. His wife (who is having fucking BREAST CANCER SURGERY in the morning) and two of her friends (who were awesome…I should give strangers more credit). And the first time she called I’m all “Just answer it please, Patrick” and he comes back to the table and he’s shaking his head and I KNOW…I just KNOW. It’s not over and this night is not going to end how I hoped it would with us rock paper scissors lizard spocking it for who will drive home and then taking a shitload of Tylenol and just white knuckling it until bedtime on Wednesday night. But I order another drink and I’m like…it’s okay, it’s FINE. Then she calls again like 20 minutes (and 2 drinks…whisky, yo) later and I just pick up my phone and leave the table because I know that that chair ain’t felling my ass again tonight.

And here we are.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Every day I try and tell myself that I’m making things better…not worse. But I don’t believe me.

Patrick is home. (With cheesecake because he’s Patrick) (and because I literally texted him “don’t even think about showing up without cheesecake”) and he asked what happened and all I could tell him was that I sobbed in the foyer for a while and I could tell that the Uber driver was still at the top of the driveway because apparently the $10 tip (smallest bill I had and I cried the whole way home so I knew she needs SOMETHING) was enough to keep her interest and she probably saw my underwear because of the way I slid down the glass door sobbing and then eventually I got Abi to put on some clothes and I cried some more and she asked for a bedtime story and Grimm ain’t got SHIT on me (I’ll get into that later…I tried to tell Patrick about my twisted fucking bedtime story that I told after I yelled “OH YOU WANT A STORY, I’LL GIVE YOU A FUCKING STORY) and I’m STILL crying and it made him go straight to the liquor cabinet and pour a whiskey) and then I came down here and left my crazy fucking expensive leftovers (seriously…it was a vendor dinner but if that bill was under $500, I’ll be AMAZED) on the kitchen counter and grabbed the laptop out of the TV cabinet because at that time I knew there was no other outlet than you, dear blog, and hastily poured a glass of whiskey and just…spilled. (I’ve lost track of the parentheses) I spilled to you. I didn’t spill whiskey because I’M A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL

But you guys. Is so many ways my life is so much more than I ever imagined. But in other ways…I’m so ill-equipped. I’m lost. I’m drowning. I can’t fix it. I cannot help my girl. I love her. But I cannot fix it.


Published by PaintingChef on 12 Sep 2014


Oh internet. Is this what we’ve come to? Me checking in on my birthday? Being a year older? A year scarier? A year wiser? Bwhahaha. Yes. So wise. So sure that by 37 I’d have it all figured out.

This past year man. What the hell? A roller coaster of epic proportions. And I shit you not… every time we think we know what is going on, the rug is pulled out from under us. It happened yet again last week. A’s mom is back in an inpatient mental health facility. And their time is ticking down, you know? This is a HUGE step backwards for them and just more uncertainty for A. And for us but we are secondary in this.

I am exhausted from this process. It hurts my heart every day. But I love this child fiercely. She is the child that I was meant to have, for however long I am lucky enough to have her. I know I’ve said that before… news flash… I’ll probably say it again (although at this rate, it will be on her 10th birthday). As soon as we come to accept the situation, the outcome, it all changes. My head spins on a daily basis, I have no idea what is going to happen tomorrow or next week or next month. I want to protect her from it all but what am I protecting her from? Her family? Her future? Her genetics?

I never imagined that this process would raise more questions than it does answers. I don’t know what I expected, in hindsight. But I’ve learned more about myself in the past year than I ever thought I would. And I’m not going to lie… not all of it was pretty. I am far, far more selfish than I ever knew. I am petty. I am jealous. I am impatient and I am spoiled fucking rotten. But I’m also kinder than I knew. My mama bear instincts run deep and strong. I’m determined and loyal and fiercely protective of my pack. I’m more flexible. I’m sillier. And sometimes, I’m even the cool mom.

Fine. That happened ONCE. And she has no idea why she was wearing a Run DMC shirt so it probably didn’t even count.

I have no idea what the next year will bring. With A. Me. Patrick. Work. Home. No clue. But the experiences of the past year have made me want to do something for the coming year. So I’ve decided to give myself a theme for my 37th year. An idea to guide my life, my actions and my intentions. I am an Unbreakable Fighter. I will be a fighter for A. I will be a fighter for my marriage, for my well-being, for my health, for my future. I will not allow uncertainty or disappointment to break me.

I am a Fighter.

I am Unbreakable.


Published by PaintingChef on 31 Mar 2014

On popping my cherry and why mother isn’t currently speaking to me…

Today I am a mother. I don’t know for how long. But today I am a mother to an amazing little girl. She is smart and strong. She is funny and stubborn and she is oh so wise beyond her years. That part breaks my heart every day but every now and then it will produce a moment that kick me in the ass and the gut at the same time.

I was helping her get dressed for the bed the other night and she reached down and stroked my hip and said “I love these bumps mama. You’re so pretty and you give such good hugs.”

Oof. Gut. Kick. Heart. Bursting.

She loves those bumps. The ones that I spend way too much time trying to camouflage with just the right clothing and shapewear. They are pretty and they help me give good hugs.

That’s when I realized that, for now, it’s up to me. I am her female role model right now and what am I teaching her if I can’t show her that I love myself and think I’m pretty too? Just the way I am. I can’t wait to love myself, to embrace my body. This is me, today. Curves, bumps and all.

If DCS has their way, I may be the only positive female role model she ever gets. Yes, she is only four years old but SURELY I can instill something in her that will last. If I’m going to do that though, I have to first love the woman that I am right now. Inside AND out. It feels like a new beginning that I hadn’t expected. I want so desperately for her to blossom with confidence in herself. Her intelligence. Her kindness and the gentleness that she is capable of when she’s not trying to destroy the world… because she has that side too… She needs to know that she is worthy of a good life, of happiness and respect and fulfillment and love. I learned those things from the women in my life. My mother, sister, grandmother, great grandmother, aunts, cousins and friends. But somewhere along the way I think I forgot about it.

Until now. And I don’t want to ever forget it again nor do I ever want to forget who reminded me and how much she needs me. That’s where this comes in…


Published by PaintingChef on 24 Oct 2013


My track record with cars is… abysmal seems too kind and mild of a word… Between the tender age of 16 and what I perceived to be the wise old age of 21, I drove and subsequently totaled 5, yes FIVE cars. In short… if you saw me coming and needed a little spare cash, you should probably find a way to be in my path because there was a damn good chance I was going to find a way to hit you.

Now before you think I’m making light of a situation that is, indeed, NOT FUNNY, let me assure you that (a) only one of these accidents occurred at a rate of speed to cause any significant injury, (b) I was the injured party (c) my damn shoulder STILL hurts when it rains and (d) the remaining cars were only totaled because my father had become wise to the fact that putting me behind the wheel of a car worth more than about $500 was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.

Additionally, I totaled three of those five cars in parking lots. Skills. I have them.

After Patrick and I got married, I found myself behind the wheel of something I never imagined I would see. A brand, spanking new car. A 2003 Volkswagen Pasaat that I loved beyond reason. She was beautiful, sleek, stylish and she was all mine. I affectionately dubbed her “Tiger Northshire” as I read somewhere that if you take the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on, that’s your drag name and to me, Tiger Northshire looked like a lovely young lady but she maybe had a little something extra under the hood.

For years, Patrick found himself in the fortunate position of having a wife who refused to consider a new car and would, in fact, stick her fingers in her ears and yell loudly when the topic was broached. I loved my German baby with all my heart and she was oh so very good to me.

Until she wasn’t.

Two weeks ago, as I was getting on the interstate to drive to work, she kind of… lagged? And then suddenly was sluggish and, if I’m being perfectly honest, not purring so much as wailing like a very unhappy feline. And on some level… I knew. I just knew. She had rolled over. I made it the rest of the way to work (oh shut up. it was like a mile and she was RUNNING), pulled into the parking lot and made my March of Sadness back to Patrick’s office.

“I fear she is done.”

A few days of research, diagnosis and tow trucks and it was determined that Tiger Northshire would live out her days frolicking with the other elderly German adult kittens on a farm in the country and I was going to have find a new damn car.

I was really, really sad until my sister pointed out to me that I’d finally had one live a long and happy life. Other than that one air conditioning unit I backed into (sorry Neena…) back when she was but a wee lass, she was injury free. Maybe I’m finally growing up? I’m 36 and, for the moment anyway, someone’s mother. I guess it’s finally time.

Oh yeah… I almost forgot… meet Ziggy Stardust…


ZS2 copy

I love her.

Published by PaintingChef on 22 Apr 2013

It all started with oatmeal…

It was about the time I found myself bent over the sink in the bathroom at work, re-washing part of my hair because the oatmeal I’d just dropped in it was threatening to harden into glue and I’d only made things works and stickier and smear-ier by first trying to address the situation with only a paper towel that I started to wonder if I was really as grown up at 35 as maybe I should be.

Let’s be honest here. I’m trying to be a parent. And not just ANY parent. A foster parent. Which, if I think about and squint a little and turn my head just so, is kind of like a person who thinks they are a SUPER parent. I am decidedly NOT a super parent. Super parents have things like baby wipes. Because baby wipes clean everything. I’ve watched one of my super parent best friends clean up a puddle of bloody mary mix from white carpet using only a baby wipe. And I’m pretty sure she whipped up a batch of cupcakes with her spare hand at the same time because when you are armed with baby wipes, cleaning bloody mary mix out of white carpet is so mundane.

For the record… I was in the corner mainlining vodka and hyperventilating because the white carpet was on my in-laws’ boat.

Super parents have Neosporin for cuts and don’t have to have another adult bandage their knees when they cut themselves shaving or pull out their splinters. And they don’t cry when someone pours hydrogen peroxide on their boo-boos. Or… you know… call them boo-boos when there isn’t anyone under the age of 5 present.

Super parents have things like clean laundry. I am currently wearing the dress that was on the top of the pile of clothes I keep thrown over the footboard of my bead, a location Patrick has not-so-fondly dubbed my “satellite closet” because I overslept and only barely managed to remember to brush my teeth this morning. Said dress is also sporting a new oatmeal stain although I’m pretty sure my hair keeps it hidden.

Except that I’m not grown up enough to fix my hair that I refuse to cut into a more responsible length so it will undoubtedly end up piled on top of my head within the next hour. (UPDATE… yes. By the time I hit “publish”, my hair was, indeed, all up on top of my head.) Because I also noticed that I’m overdue for a haircut and the ends are looking a wee bit mangled. I briefly considered cutting the oatmeal out of my hair this morning for no other reason than maybe it would be the kick in the ass I needed to get said haircut.

Super parents deal with their laundry. There are clean clothes in my dryer. They have been there for a week. Sometimes I run the dryer again to try and de-wrinkle them but only so I can get one thing out and wear it. At this point, I’m thinking it would be easier to just wash them all again.

Also? My bra straps are killing me today. Why you may ask? Well. It was gorgeous outside yesterday so after Patrick and dined on our fine gourmet lunch of McDonald’s chicken wraps and sweet tea (at 2:00 in the afternoon because I forgot that lunch was a thing and was just so full from the doughnuts we’d had for breakfast) I pulled on my favorite strapless lounging dress (from my satellite closet) and plopped my happy ass down on the deck yesterday and sat outside in the glorious sunshine and read a book. For three hours. With no sunscreen. And I now have what I’m certain can only be referred to as the “Irresponsible person in a strapless dress with a kindle” tan. Notice the lack of “super parent” in that description.

My dinner beverage of choice is ginger ale and orange juice and I have actually turned down a glass of wine in favor of this.

I still get chin zits.

I ran my freshly charged cell phone battery all the way down Saturday morning playing Candy Crush while lying in bed and watching 90210.

I passed over the lovely and adult Nars lipstick for something with Hello Kitty on the tube this morning. But not until I got to work because I’m incapable of getting up in time to put on makeup at home.

On Friday morning, it was pouring the rain and when I took Archie outside before work, he peed on the front porch instead of getting his feet wet. I praised his ingenuity.

Oh sure, I’ll tell you we’re having fish tacos for dinner but in all honesty, they are beer batter fish sticks wrapped in a tortilla with maybe some cheese and sour cream. IF I remember to get tortillas. And there is a 40% chance that we will have macaroni and cheese with them. (actually… maybe this one makes me MORE prepared for parenthood…)

I can’t be trusted to make the adult decision on a regular basis. I will tell you this though… I married a man who both embraces that and trumps me when need be. I’m not sure I’m ready to be a mom, I’m not sure I’ll ever really be the adult. If I know it’s going to work in my favor, I have no qualms pulling out the pout or the mope.

It’s high time someone sat me down and said QUIT THAT SHIT. Because I’m CAPABLE of being the adult. I think this might be the worst part. I know the right things to do. I know what choices I should be making… it’s just that sometimes? I’d rather go get frozen yogurt at 10 pm in my pajamas.

The good news is that I married a guy who does floors, is well practiced at putting on band-aids and knows the right time to look at me and say… “Hey… maybe you want to put on pants before we leave the house?”

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