Archive for May, 2006

Published by PaintingChef on 31 May 2006

Sometimes you need to hear it from a third party…

The other night I had the first dream about Papa Bill that I’ve had since he passed away in February. At least the first one that I remember.

It was such a simple dream but somehow, when I woke up this morning, I just felt kind of…lovely. I was at my grandparent’s house in Knoxville and, while the dream took place in the present, the house had reverted back to the place I like to remember it as, full of the buzz of activity and the noise of family that I remember it to be…before things kind of went…dark.

Papa Bill was walking up the steps to the back door, everyone used the back door, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I used the front door of that house, and I was walking down the steps. It seemed so natural that he was there, even though I knew he had passed away and that nobody else in the dream could see him. We both just stopped there on the steps, he looked at me and I looked at him, and then I just gave him a huge hug, told him that I loved him and that I missed him so much. He told me that he knew that, he loved me too, and then he told me that I was a good girl, he was so proud of me and that Patrick and I were going to have such a happy life.

Hearing that, waking up with those words echoing in my head and in my heart, I’ve never been more confident that they are true.

Published by PaintingChef on 30 May 2006

I challenge you to find transitions that would turn this into a coherent piece of writing.

An important lesson was learned over the long weekend. A lesson that will not be discussed in detail because some things? They are sacred between the husband and the wife. Yes even between me and Patrick.

Stop that! Stop that blinking in disbelief right this instant! I do NOT tell you everything. Well, unless you are Bonanza or Zube, then most likely, you know it all (with the exception of this most recent event).

Let’s call it this my friends. The Lesson. Proper noun. And The Lesson is this…when the most recent attack of The Crazies (also a proper noun) manifests itself in a screaming and crying fit of the most ridiculous nature that involves you accusing a very wonderful man of something really truly ridiculous…just stop. Repeat the accusations to yourself. Have a giggle. Laugh at yourself. Because DAMN.

Then let your wonderful husband decide that you need, nay you are SCREAMING, for a midday margarita drunk with a side of a cheese dip coma followed by an actual real, live, in a theatre movie immediately. So you feast on the chimichangas and the guacamole. And then you go see “The DaVinci Code” and listen to all the southern religious zealots who have brought their elementary school aged children with them so they can tell them throughout the whole movie why all these other people are going to hell because they are wrong and stupid and god will kill their puppies. And you laugh a little because oh how sad but also maybe could they just shut the fuck up because I’m trying to enjoy this movie which is kind of “meh…book was much better” for many reasons one of which is that hair, oh my god that HAIR!

But you ignore them and cuddle with your husband in the movie theatre like a couple of high schoolers and you hope that he’s not really just lulling you into a false sense of security with the movie and the cheese dip before depositing you unceremoniously on the front door of the psychiatric ward with a post-it on your forehead telling them “If you would so kindly extract the Crazies from this woman’s head, restore her to her original form with only the endearing, lowercase crazies as opposed to the new breed of psychotic, delusional uppercase Crazies she has recently developed. I would be everso grateful. Thanks. And maybe also, could you enlighten me on the rules of what I’m allowed to ask you to fix while you’re in there and what I’m supposed to just think is adorable?”

And then you decide to ask the internet a random question such as “What is the weirdest thing you have on your key ring? How did it get there? What do you use it for?” And then present them with your Exhibit A. A 7/32 Craftsman wrench. Its real, too. I stole it off of someone’s keychain at a party in college. When I was drunk. And probably stoned because…college… If its yours, tough shit, its mine now punk. And it opens Diet Coke cans like a motherfucking CHAMP.

Keys

Keys--Close Up

Published by PaintingChef on 26 May 2006

My computer and I will eventually come to blows or I will just pull its hair and run away.

As I was merrily photoshopping (can we consider that an actual verb now? Spellchecker doesn’t recognize it but I would like to enter it into consideration.) along yesterday at work, cropping Patrick the human easel out of photographs of my paintings so that I can actually update my website (well…so that I can burn a disc and send it to Elyse… also found here… to update my website) a great warning flashed up on my computer, a warning that I never thought I’d see.

WARNING! YOU ARE DANGEROUSLY LOW ON HARD DRIVE SPACE! IF YOU DO NOT REMOVE FILES THIS COMPUTER WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN 2 MINUTES AND END THE WORLD AND MAYBE EVEN STEAL ALL YOUR SHOES! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!

Well damn. I tried to ignore it but it kept showing up everywhere I looked. “FINE!” Says I. “I will take my precious pictures of my refrigerator and the mullet family and Patrick in a tree OFF of my work computer! Just please, for the love of all that is good and chocolaty…STEP AWAY FROM THE WEITZMANS AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT!”

I did a little poking around into the subcockles of my hard drive and the mind-boggling labyrinth that is “My Documents” (oh how I long to return to the Mac world where all makes sense…) and discovered that I did, indeed, have more than a few cobwebs to clear. It was then that I kind of wanted to lick Patrick for his foresight to purchase a flash drive that would attach to the memory card for our camera. Because really? Don’t I want to save pictures of my broken finger, cracked windshield, and hair dying adventures for a rainy day?

And all so I could try, yet again, to dazzle you with my artistic prowess by sticking a few pictures of paintings that you’ve already seen at the end of this and calling it “Random Picture Friday”.

Tunnel

Pinks and Blues

Green Cheese Moon

Breaking Out

Published by PaintingChef on 25 May 2006

I’m rubbing off on him.

“Patrick? What’s wrong with the dog? Did you break her?”

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s always been a little…special.”

“But don’t you think this is kind of excessive? I mean…look at her. I think that I need to video this and share it with the internet.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Why not? This shit is hysterical!”

“Well as soon as you get up to go get the camera she’ll follow you and she isn’t going to do it again. Can’t this just be our little show? Is nothing sacred anymore? I just want to protect our children from the internet!”

“But what if she’s really telling us ‘I know what the winning lottery numbers are and if you would please take me to the closest lottery ticket outlet I will happily sprout opposable thumbs and a divine mastery of the English language and share my knowledge with you even filling out the ticket with my newly acquired thumbs. Also? More steak for dinner, please and perhaps a latte. Nonfat of course.’ We would NEVER know. We would think that her thoughts were limited to play, lick, eat, sleep, poop, and swim. We are SELLING OUR CHILD SHORT and maybe someone on the internet could help us!”

“What is it like, exactly, to live in your head?”

“Well, when she grows up and never fulfills her true potential and she traces it all back to this one moment, what are you going to do?”

“Probably follow your lead and blame Brenda Walsh.”

(For the record…Belle was kind of standing up but only with her back legs. She was twisted over in the middle of her body and lying down on her front legs with her head laid over on the side and her mouth was open baring her teeth in her “Bring it on bitches!” look and she was making this little noises with her throat. Her ass? Was straight up in the air.)

Published by PaintingChef on 24 May 2006

Silence is Golden.

There are some situations in life that just don’t call for conversation. And there are some people who really need to be more aware that their chosen professions should lend themselves to a little more silence than they practice.

Dental hygienists. So there I am…lying back in your chair and you’re up to your elbows in my pie hole. And you want to talk about my day? Really? Because if you’re going to make sense from my response of “Ghhdheiiirjslkjjfjns woieiihsljgaaahhh daaaarrrrhhhhg” then you are in the wrong line of work my friend. You need to look into language study or code-breaking of some form because…damn. Not to mention you managed to avoid my obvious attempts to bite off your fingers at the knuckles. Oops. And let’s be honest here. Any job where that is a daily concern? No thanks.

But it never fails to amaze me. You thoughtfully provided me with a wireless headset and a television mounted at a somewhat precarious angle. You even splurged on the good cable. I’m talking HBO my friend. So with the amenities you’ve so kindly provided, I can almost ignore your elbow bumping against my upper bicuspid as long as you don’t try to carry on conversation! Observe. Headphones? Check. Obvious HBO coma? Check. Mouth unhinged and flopped wide open? Check. Conversation? Pass.

Facialists. I’ve just dropped close to a hundred bucks for you to slather my face with all sorts of wonderful smelling creams and masques that I will never be able to afford and then use your nifty tool to wage war on my skin and get all that crap out that no matter what I use, seems to have taken up permanent residence in my pores. I know they’re bad. YOU know they’re bad because you’re looking at them through a magnifying glass that enlarges them to a degree I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But really? We don’t need to talk about it until afterwards.

Do you see how the room is dark? The soothing music is playing? The person on your table with her eyes closed and her face so relaxed you almost can’t see that forehead wrinkle you first made her aware of 5 years ago in a moment of unexpected trauma and has since caused her to beg her husband for Botox on a regular basis? (He says thanks a lot by the way…) Did you notice that I didn’t really make eye contact with you when you walked me back to your 10×10 square of paradise thus ensuring no conversation would be necessary? I don’t really want to talk. I don’t really want to hear about your ex-husband or your daughter who moved back in with you, again, after her second divorce. Its not that I don’t care, its not that I’m a cold, heartless, and insensitive bitch. Its just that this? Is quiet time.

And my very favorite. The masters of inappropriately timed conversation. The gynecologist. Now I understand that you are a medical professional. I have entrusted you with the care and maintenance of a highly sensitive (and in my case…faulty) system of chutes and ladders. You need to know what’s going on down there. You need to know if things have been acting up or misfiring, clinking or clanking. And I’ll give you all the details; I promise you more details than you could ever imagine. Because I’m a details girl when it comes to the punk ass ovaries. But can we maybe limit the chit-chat to before and after the exam? Because when you’re up close and personal with my inner lady bits, I don’t really want to be telling you about my sister’s wedding or my next vacation. I kind of feel like, I don’t know, maybe you should be giving my uterus your undivided attention, making sure you don’t slip and create an emergency exit or something.

This game of quiet mouse also extends to the breast exam. With the additional provision of no eye contact. I understand that you need to poke around my funbags; I do it on a monthly basis just like you taught me. But with the added awkwardness the close proximity of this situation brings, let’s not ramp it up with unnecessary conversation or eye contact. Once I’m sitting up, out of the stirrups, and covered (or preferably clothed) we can talk all you want.

While we’re at it, can I give you the phone numbers for my dentists and my facialist? They may have some suggestions for you on improving the ambiance of this torture chamber you call an office. I think with some headphones and cable television I could almost forget you were down there. I imagine there are plenty of relationships that operate on very similar principles.

Next »