Archive for June, 2006

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Jun 2006

See? I promised…just some lovely pictures


Originally uploaded by PaintingChef.

Hopefully, if you click on that picture it will go to the others…again, I say…HOPEFULLY…

I feel like the seventy year old woman who is so proud she just got her first computer. Or the way Zack Morris must feel when he sees those quasi-old “Saved By The Bell” episodes where he uses that massive cell phone that probably comes with its own battery backpack to call Mr. Belding from The Maxx and cause all sorts of mayhem.

You see, I? Have finally decided to experiment with Flickr. So here are some pictures from the Pikes Place Market in Seattle. Bear with me if they are all a little wonky. I don’t think any of you realize just how much behind the scenes coaching via emails that start out something like “I’ve fucked it all up ONCE AGAIN and its all so very BAD BAD BAD!!” coaching that this lovely person does for me…

But this one? All on my own kids…all on my own.

There now, that wasn’t so terribly long and drawn out, was it?

Published by PaintingChef on 29 Jun 2006

Making me want to maybe just go ahead and give birth to a high schooler.

Ew. That’s kind of gross. But let me explain…PLEASE!

Its Perfect Post time again. One of my favorite blogs is Falafel Sex, and Other Things Better Left Unsaid. Granted, if I’m reading it and someone comes along I’ll close the browser window instead of just minimizing it because once, not too long ago, someone was looking at something on my computer over my shoulder and asked if I was into food porn…

But this blog is kind of an eclectic mix of political commentary and family life authored by several people, one of which is Cynikell. Her son recently graduated from high school and what she wrote about this event kind of tugged at me and I read it several times over the past month.

I only hope that one day, my child(ren) think half as highly of me as her son obviously does of her. Please, go read Cynikell’s post titled “Milestone #1,536“.

A Perfect Post

Published by PaintingChef on 29 Jun 2006

I hope you brought snacks because this one kept getting longer and longer…

Could someone please help me with this whole “lost luggage” thing? Its as confusing to me as non-accident related traffic jams (there is someone up at the front of that damn traffic jam and they are JUST SITTING THERE!).

I hand you my luggage. You then print out some sort of sticker bracelet with my very own specific bar code all over it. You wrap this indestructible material around the handle of my luggage and I KNOW how tough that shit it because I had to cut it off with a damn steak knife when I got home. You then place my luggage on that conveyer belt thingy and it goes away. To someone else. Who scans it and finds out EXACTLY where it needs to go. Now here’s the kicker… I? Didn’t change flights. Nope. Direct flight. Didn’t pass go, didn’t collect $200, nothing. I just went to Atlanta on an airplane.

My luggage? Apparently had other travel plans.

Let’s examine this scene, shall we? Its 10:00 in the evening. When I got on the airplane in Seattle, it was 2:00 in the afternoon. I’m okay at 2:00 in the afternoon. Pleasant even. But at 10:00 in the evening after 4,562 hours on a plane in front of three teenage girls who cannot speak without screeching or dancing a jig on the back of my seat and who smell, inexplicably, like Jolly Ranchers, I’m not quite so fun. I might even be considered hostile.

And I’m not looking forward to the very long trek back to my precious car. Nor am I eager to face the 2 hour drive home. Because there are some people who cannot sleep in a moving vehicle. I? Am one of those people. But in a rare moment of brainstorm activity prompted by the mass of what I estimate to be 300 people crammed around a luggage carousel that is repeatedly jamming because it is delivering the luggage for 6 different flights, I suggested that we go get the car, bring it a little closer, and by the time we get back, the crowd will have diminished, we can pick up our luggage, and I probably won’t strangle anyone with their own tongue.

So we started walking. And walking. And then we saw the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. A little man in a golf cart. And he TOOK US TO OUR CAR. And I tipped him 10 bucks. It was a toss up between that or a lap dance. I figured Patrick would prefer losing a little cash.

This wonderful and unexpected bonus had us back in the baggage claim area much faster than expected. Apparently, it also cleared out much earlier than expected because it was a ghost town. Everyone was gone. Even the little child I’d nearly caused to pee in his pants when I gave him the look of death after he stepped on my toe. So we take a brief moment to revel in our stroke of sheer genius and stroll up to the baggage carousel. And look. And look. And realize that our bags? Are not among the lost little orphans riding the magic merry go round. Nor are they in any of the random groups of luggage scattered about. ANYWHERE.

I burst into tears. Because that is the helpful thing to do when it is closing in on midnight, you are two hours from home, starving, grumpy, and you’ve just realized that after a three year quest for the perfect hairbrush it may be lost somewhere between Atlanta and Seattle.

We look around and find what looks to be the line for lost baggage. And we wait and wait and wait. And we keep hoping that we’ll see SOMEONE we recognize from our flight waiting for their luggage too. Maybe the ambiguously gay man who shared our row or the guy that I’m pretty sure I graduated from high school with but we never spoke 10 years ago so he probably wouldn’t remember me now and even if he did what would we talk about? “Hey. You grew out of that eternal awkwardness really well and your wife is also kind of familiar. How’s it going man?” Plus, I wasn’t completely certain I could remember his name anyway.

Oh my GOD this is so long, I’m hating it already…wrap it UP! DAMN! Aren’t you glad I decided to split this into two entries? Don’t you wish it were like seven instead and I’d just start a new website devoted to hating the Atlanta airport (which I actually don’t…I just hate the Atlanta airport when it is my starting point or my final destination) and not tell anyone about it so you would all be spared this mindless drivel? Don’t you wish I’d not waste time on this paragraph and just GET TO THE FUCKING POINT?


Our luggage WAS in Atlanta. But nobody knew where in Atlanta. We waited in one line for almost an hour. And when we were almost to the front some rude lady in mannish pants and bad shoes told us we were in the WRONG line because Atlanta was our final destination and that line was for people whose luggage was lost before they reached their final destination and I was all “But you don’t even KNOW your luggage is lost until you get where you’re going and its not there with you”. But all she did was punch a few buttons and hand us a “case number” and tell us to have a nice day.

When we finally pulled into our driveway at 2:00 a.m. I was tired. Hungry. Grouchy. Sad. And wanted my damn hairbrush (Nevermind that not ONCE have I EVER brushed my hair before going to bed. But now that the option was taken away from me, it was all I could think about.) We ate some food in bed and then passed the fuck out.

The next morning I dragged my ass into work at the bright and early hour of 10:30 and proceeded to get on the phone and track down my hairbrush. The good news is that our bags found their way to Augusta rather quickly. The bad news? APPARENTLY I was supposed to just magically know that I needed to call and schedule them to be delivered to me. And NOBODY WAS ANSWERING THE PHONE. Which meant? That I was going to have to drive to the Augusta airport after work and convince someone to give me my damn bags.

Which I did. And I apologize to all of you who have read this wretched excuse for a post. And I ESPECIALLY apologize to Zube and Bonanza as they’ve already heard all of this on the phone. Tomorrow? Something shorter. Maybe getting hammered with my sister. Or maybe just some damn pictures so I will just SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

Published by PaintingChef on 28 Jun 2006

I am grateful that Patrick shows more restraint than I am capable of.

And here I thought that leaving the house BEFORE 6 AM and getting to the Atlanta airport two hours away was going to be the difficult part. Not so my friends, just not the case at all.

The most difficult part of the whole airport arrival and checking in experience and what I estimate to cause at least 3 divorces a day? Parking. Upon arrival to the Atlanta airport, you are presented with many parking options. That’s great. Thank you airport planners, you have thought of everyone. Garage, economy, park and ride, there is something for everyone. But what happens when you disagree? My vote was for park and ride. Patrick wanted to park in the economy lot. Guess who was behind the wheel? (Right, like I’M going to try and operate heavy machinery before 6 am. Please.) The conversation that ensued…

“I think we should park in the park and ride lot.”

“It was full the last time I was here. Besides, I know how the economy lot works. And its just $10 a day.”

“Well park and ride isn’t full now. And it works like it says. Park. And. Ride. As in PARK the car and RIDE their shuttle to the terminal. AND its $9 a day.”

“But I know how the economy lot works.”


“I think it’ll be bad form if we can’t make it onto the plane without killing each other Susannah. Do you not notice that the car is parked? And off? We have parked. In the economy lot. And I am getting out of the car now. Are you coming with me?”

“But you PARK. And they give you a RIDE. Now we have to WALK. This isn’t the economy lot. Its the park and hike a fucking mile lot. And we are at the back of the lot. The very back. As far away as you can get. And its EARLY. PARK! And RIDE!”

“So you want me to tell your sister hello for you and explain that you are a pain in my neck and are sitting in the economy lot in Atlanta? Because the keys are coming with me. I saw yours on the kitchen counter. You told me to remind you that they were there when you started panicking because you couldn’t find them”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

For the record, once we hiked the 47.8 miles to the terminal we checked in and made it through security with ease although I was a little afraid that Patrick was going to tell the security screeners that I tend to make unnecessary death threats when provoked or if you speak directly to me before noon. Thank goodness he refrained because I might have deserved it a little… Such a good one, that man. Airport jail would have sucked.

And tune in tomorrow for part two or “More of Why I Hate the Atlanta Airport.”

Published by PaintingChef on 27 Jun 2006

Gone Fishin’

“Patrick, this aquarium has inspired me.”

“You’re going to paint fish now?”

“No, no, its inspired me to come up with a new pet name for you. I’ve been feeling like ‘sweet ass’ and ‘hot tamale’ are both kind of tired and not really all that original. But I’m getting quite inspired by the names of some of these fish.”

“I could see myself answering to ‘swordfish’ or ‘king mackerel’. That’s not so bad.”

“You jackass. Have you seen ANY swordfish or king mackerel in this entire building?”

“Well…no. But you said you were INSPIRED by the aquarium.”

“Look. I’ve been making a list. You can have your choice.”

“You’ve been making a LIST of names?”

“Yes. Are you ready or not?”

“Sock it to me…”

“The front runners are Spiny Lumpsucker, Threespine Stickleback, High Cockscomb, Convict Surgeon Fish, and Snake Prickleback.”

“I am never taking you anywhere again.”

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