Archive for the 'Marriage' 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 23 May 2013

Just when I’m afraid the gap in our ability to function as people who should be allowed to leave the house is too wide to overcome, he throws me a bone.

Patrick is one of those exercise people. And? One of those morning people. Which means that several mornings a week, he kisses me as I drool and snore (yes… I do both of those things but not NEAR as badly as I used to, thank you very much) and leaves to go run a few miles at the gym.

This baffles me to no end. Yes. Exercise… good. No argument there. But in the MORNING? Before work? ON PURPOSE? When there is still an hour before Good Morning America and Robin Roberts and Josh Elliot and their kicky matching hair and general all-around NICE-ness? I’m sorry. I cannot be expected to start my day without the required dose of those two.

Because he is also the responsible one in our world and I generally fail at thinking about anything before 8 AM beyond if my shoes match (each other) and did I brush my teeth or just put toothpaste on the toothbrush and then walk away, I also frequently forget… well… everything in the morning. Patrick, however, is almost always coherent enough in the morning to make a perfectly sensible lunch for himself. (Yesterday? I grabbed a piece of cheese and, I think, a tub of what I thought was leftover lasagna but actually turned out to be red buttercream frosting.)

The previous day, in a fit of rare productivity and planning, I’d gone to the grocery store after work to get things for lunches and dinner. I started at the deli and, in the interest of not waiting in line and stabbing someone in the neck, I placed my order and proceeded to do the rest of my grocery shopping with the intention of coming back and picking up the turkey and roast beef and cheese.

Ha! Hahaha! HAHAHAHAHA! Never do that. It doesn’t work. You forget it and then you remember you forgot it as soon as you pull in the driveway and instead of greeting someone with “Hi! I’m home!” You end up with something along the lines of “Cocksucker motherfucker why can’t you just be as irresponsible as I am?” and then it just gets ugly. Because he was just mowing the yard so it didn’t look like the house was abandoned. GEEZ!

But actually because your husband is so lovely and kind and understanding he’s all… no worries! It happens! Have some wine! I’ll just pick up sandwich stuff at the store after I go to the gym in the morning!

Which he absolutely did. And so the next day as you are fixing dinner and he comes in and unloads his morning grocery bags (which he responsible stored in the fridge at work all day unlike someone who would probably have forgotten them until noon when they had no doubt melted and oozed into some sort of toxic Kentucky hot brown) it is only then you also realize those bags contain a fair amount of beer…

“Um… Patrick? Were you the guy in the grocery store buying beer at seven o’clock in the morning?”

“Yes. I was. And YOU married me.”

Oh thank god. I feel so much better about my life now.

Published by PaintingChef on 25 Sep 2012

Most people figure these things out when they are very young…

Everyone has that one thing in their marriage that is difficult for them. That one thing that they fight over more than anything else or that stresses them out to no end. Right? (Please say nod and say yes, I’m just going to assume that you are nodding in solidarity.)

I’m no different. I’m DREADFUL with money. I just am. I don’t always think things through and then I try and go back and fix them later, often creating a much worse mess and situation than if I had just not tried to do it all myself the first time. Sound familiar? (Again with the nodding please…)

I’m trying to be better about it. I’m trying to be grown up and make better decisions. But it’s a…process. Earlier this year, I made one such bad decision. I made it out of panic and fear and somewhat misguided good intentions and that’s all it was. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. So small. Out of respect for the bigger problems in the world, I’ll spare you the details. The mistake wasn’t even the problem.

The problem was the months of deception that I went through to try and cover it up. Mountains of guilt. Sleepless nights. KNOWING that I needed to come clean and just get it out. Purge. Whatever you want to call it. But I. Was. Terrified. Of what? I have no idea. We can all just go ahead and agree that my husband is glorious, right? That he is pretty much the kindest and most forgiving person that ever lived. He is good and patient and absolutely adorable, right?

Ok, good. In spite of all that though, I was so afraid he would… what? Be mad? Judge me? Leave me? I have no idea. It was like this,,,brownish area with points. I knew that I WANTED to tell him. And that I wanted to just put it all out there and be honest and not terrified of what was going to be in the mailbox. I wanted to NOT hold my breath every time I walked in the door or he walked in the door because he had found out before I’d sacked up enough to tell him.

And then finally… I did. And he was… well, he was Patrick. He loves me. Inexplicably. Unconditionally. Completely. And I have a renewed commitment to him. Honesty. Disclosure. And for me? It is bravery. It is trust. Things that I guess don’t normally go with honesty but for they always have. After 10 years of marriage, you wouldn’t think that being afraid of what your husband thinks of your character would still be an issue. But for me it is. Or rather… it was. This man deserves everything good I have to give him. And more.

How about you? What do you struggle with?

Published by PaintingChef on 11 Jan 2012

The saga of the purple room. Part possibly one but maybe two of potentially eleventy billion.

My darling husband is an engineer and all that that implies. When he took up with me a dozen or so years ago, he was suddenly exposed to a world of clutter and disorder and haphazard “organization” the likes of which he had never seen. I? Was familiar with his breed as they are rampant in my family tree. He didn’t have that luxury. Bless his heart.

But over the years, we find a common ground and we find a way to live with each other. He only throws the sledgehammer at me if the piles of junk mail hang around longer than a week and if I get angry while he cleans up behind me in the kitchen, I make an effort to avoid organs when I stab him. We are thinking of starting a side business as marriage counselors. Or at the very least, getting a reality show.

All this aside, we do manage to exist in the same house and are both still very much alive after doing so for a decade. (FUCK I’M OLD) But over the course of a decade, couple tend to… accumulate things. Many things. And eventually, those things need a place to be things and do the things that those things do even if all they are doing is sitting in a box with other things that at some point seemed related but now all you have is a box with a picture frame, three Barbie dolls (Joan Jett, Debbie Harry and Cyndi Lauper and I LOVE THEM but I have no idea what to DO with them), a book on calligraphy, 4 issues of Martha Stewart Living and a sushi mat.

But there were many of these boxes. LOADS of them. And stacks and piles and leaning towers of things that had all been jammed in this one room whenever company was coming over and I was suddenly embarrassed to be kind of clutter-y. Rinse and repeat and suddenly we were finding ourselves in a single room, always keep the door closed, hoarders situation that we were no longer able to ignore.

So we spent a weekend cleaning out what had come to be known as The Purple Room. And that bitch turned out to be a LOT bigger than I thought! I once again have a place just for painting AND? AND!! AND!?!? I just stole my ballet barre from my parents’ house and Patrick is going to put that sucker up on the walls. Well… after we rip the weird foam sun down from the wall, sand them and paint over all the strange birds and picket fences and odd little things painted all over the purple walls. And put up mirrors behind the barre. Oh, and after we pull up the totally ruined by a formerly non-housebroken dog and put down hardwood. And find a new desk that isn’t secretly a kitchen table. And maybe re-cover a chair. And put up a television.

Shit. now I’m exhausted. Can we just close the door again? Stupid engineers.

Published by PaintingChef on 08 Dec 2011

Because sometimes chocolate is the answer to everything.

The fact that I am sitting right here writing these words is a testament to the absolutely shit-balls awesome guy I married. I say that because I’m alive to type this.

Ten years later.

He hasn’t killed me yet.

It’s probably weird that we have been married for ten years and it’s still just us. Two dogs. Two cats. Two hundred and twelve shoes. Three Kitchen-Aid mixers (thanks Neena.) But here we are. Still us.

I think there would be no argument from anyone, least of all my dearly beloved, when I say that I’ve put the man through his paces over the past decade. He’s a saint, I know it and I’m damn lucky to have him.

Nothing about our life looks like I thought it would 10 years into our marriage. Granted 10 years ago, I had no idea what I WANTED our life to look like in this far-off, imaginary year where surely to GOD the cars would fly and someone would have figured out a solution to that whole pesky laundry and vacuuming situation, but I’m pretty damn certain that it did not involve living back in Tennessee and working together. For my father. And probably there were kids… and more cats…

But here we are. And guess what? I’m kind of blissed out. And m very, very wise peanut butter filled chocolate afternoon treat just gave me a very valuable piece of information…

Happy 10 years babe. Damn, you’re a lucky bastard.

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