Archive for the 'Life and Love' 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.

Breathe.

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.

This.
Fucking.
Sucks.

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Mar 2012

Violated.

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.

Published by PaintingChef on 28 Jun 2011

In the immortal words of L.L. Cool J… “Doin’ it and doin’ it and doin’ it well”

I know I haven’t mentioned the whole weight loss thing here much recently. Oh please, let’s be honest with one another, shall we? If nothing else, at least we can do that. I haven’t mentioned much of ANYTHING here recently. I’m not complaining. Or making excuses. I’ve just been busy. And happy. And did I mention busy? None of which allows much time for the things that fly through my head at the most inopportune times (should I keep a notepad by the crapper? In the shower? WHY are these the main places that I think of things to talk to you about?) to find their way here to this hallowed pages.

Hallowed? Really? Yes really. I was immersed in some Gilmore Girls reruns yesterday while it rained and somehow my mind is stuck in kind of a private school Ivy League place and instead of deciding what to make for dinner, I spend my evenings wondering if my life would be different had I actually used my 184 IQ for something other than mixing drinks, writing papers for other people for cash and learning the ins and outs of the economics of selling pot. Somehow I kind of think it wouldn’t and that makes me happy. I like where I ended up and, like Tim Riggins, I have no regrets

(LIE! I SO should have spent that year I was unemployed in Augusta making a habit of going to the gym instead of eating shells and cheese and running up credit card debt. Also? That one boy that time in college. Oh. And the one in high school. Him too. MISTAKES.) (And that haircut. The short one. No, not the CUTE short one, the REALLY short one. And perhaps that phase where I wore long blazers and leggings and boots. Maybe… that actually may have been kind of cute and quirky. And maybe quitting the cross country team but I tend to lump that one in with one of those boys.)

Where was I? Ah. Yes. That whole don’t be such a fat ass thing. Usually I tend to not talk about something because it has been neglected. For details, please refer yourself to many prior posts about things we don’t discuss. But that’s actually not the case this time. It’s going well. REALLY well, in fact. I’m not going to tell you it’s easy because it really isn’t. Not exactly. But it is… easier? Regardless, whatever it is, it’s working. I’ve lost almost 70 pounds. And that’s kind of a big deal.

But I find myself noticing little things that are different. Ways that my life is different. Or, more like it used to be…? It’s not necessarily the numbers on the scale that I notice first although don’t get me wrong, I’m on that scale at least once a day if not more. It’s not quite the frightening piece of glass and metal that it used to be. But that’s not the big thing. The big thing is that my outlook is different. My attitude has changed. I don’t mind being the person that gets up to do something. That weeds the garden. That walks the dogs. That goes to the store. That has to run through the airport because we forgot to confirm that the plane was at the same gate that was printed on the ticket and oh look! It’s not! I don’t make excuses to not get up and do something. I just… get up and do it.

I am sleeping better. I am three sizes smaller and FOUR bra sizes smaller than I was 6 months ago. My rings are all too loose. My shoes (OH GOD… MY SHOES) are a little too big. (Anyone out there wear a size 10 shoe…40 in European sizes? Let’s talk… my babies are going to need a good home if there are ones that won’t fit again once I stock up loads of insoles) Chairs feel larger, airplane seats are more comfortable, I’ve had to change the position of the seat in my car, my couch feels larger, my shower bigger, everything, except for my ass and my pants, feels bigger. And don’t get me wrong, those things are all nice and they are tangible and I notice them. They are important. But looking better is, in a way, a side effect. I feel like the changes are from the inside out. It’s a long process. And I’m only halfway there. But the choices are easier to make. I’m not scared of myself anymore. I trust myself to not only KNOW the smart thing, but to actually DO the smart things.

I don’t deprive myself. If I want something, I have it. There is chocolate in my house. There is ice cream. There is wine… OH IS THERE WINE. But it no longer has the power over me that it did. I don’t feel hopeless. I don’t feel like I’ve ruined myself and my body and that I’ve done so much damage that it can’t be reversed. I don’t look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that it is too late for me. I no longer see my outward appearance as just another symbol of my inner weakness and failure and inadequacies. I am strong. I am happy. I am becoming healthier every day. I am proud of myself and I’ve worked hard.

And I’m doing this FOR ME. I am allowing myself to be selfish and put me first. Yes, this will help me be a good mother and a good wife. A better sister and daughter and friend. But above all that is that it will make me be a better ME. I’m finally becoming present in my own life again. I’m showing up. I’m determining what is next and I’ve finally learned that it isn’t too late to choose my own adventure. This summer, I will learn to wakeboard. I will get a tattoo. I’ve had purple hair. I’ve pierced my nose. I’ve stopped being afraid of being seen at the fat girl, even if I still look a little like her. I know that inside, I’m not her. And I’m just getting the outside to match that.

It’s hard work and it’s a long process. But I’m doing it. Every day. And that’s all that matters.

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Sep 2010

And all I was looking for was a cheeseburger…

Very rarely is it that I see something that makes me just stop and stare. Wait, scratch that… I see shit like that all the time but usually I’m staring at some inbred asshole and wondering how in the world they managed to even get out of bed with their pants on when they are displaying such obviously intelligence-impaired behavior. No, I’m talking about something that is so wonderful and beautiful that it just makes me stop and stare and be filled with something warm and delicious that is either love or molten dark chocolate… the jury is still out on that one and Patrick refuses to bite off a toe to check. Party pooper.

Last weekend, Patrick and I were out running some errands because I had a streak of planning run through me and I decided that HEY! Maybe, just maybe I should finish up shopping for my mom’s birthday a couple of days in advance instead of panicking the morning of and getting all stabby and sweaty and flustered. So off we went. While we were out, I happened to mention to Patrick that I was starving and had made no plans for dinner… as I’m wont to do on Friday and any other day that ends in –day which is how we found ourselves sitting down to a late dinner.

As we were sitting there just talking about the minutiae of our day and week and weekend plans and blah, blah, blah, I happened to look p and about 3 tables away from us was an elderly couple, I would guess in their 70s. They were sitting next to each other, on the same side of the table and I’m not going to lie. I fell in love with them. They looked like a couple of teenagers on their first date. They were giggling and cuddling and holding hands. He was so obviously madly in love with this woman and she clearly adored him.

Patrick and I sat and stared; because we couldn’t NOT stare, hopefully they didn’t notice us. And then their server brought out some giant dessert and she literally clapped her hands as it was set in front of them. They shared their dessert, feeding each other every now and then, never stopping their conversation. I stared some more and slowly redefined what I wanted out of life. (And then I turned the flash on my Blackberry off and took their picture. I had no choice, I wanted to always remember them.)

I wanted to be them. Not just in the future, but now. I want to know that every second is a treasure; that every moment I have with this wonderful man is so much better than any moment I would ever have without him. and when I’m elderly, I want to go to a restaurant far past when most of my peers would be awake and cuddle and sit almost inappropriately close and share a dessert and giggle and talk about whatever comes up and not have another care in the world. I want to be victorious over the things in like that make us downtrodden and complacent and not be beaten down by the routine and monotony that some people let their lives become. I want to always be in love, new, shiny love.

And who knows, maybe it WAS their first date, I doubt it, but stranger things have happened. But there was more there, behind their smiles. It wasn’t new, you could just tell. They KNEW each other, more than any two people have ever known each other in their lives. They were each other’s suns, the center of their universe. And that takes a lifetime… doesn’t it?

I want to be them.