Archive for November, 2006

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Nov 2006

Not at all like June Cleaver.

In preparation for all these people coming to our house for Thanksgiving (I KNOW! Would someone PLEASE tell her to move on already? We know that she had all these family people to her house for a few days and that they were even moderately well-behaved and that having two babies running all over her house made her rethink this whole children thing because honestly? They kind of made her a little crazy and not gooey at all which was a total shock.) Patrick, in all his awesomeness and hotness, gave in to my constant nagging and whining and stomping around and holding my breath until my face turned blue kindly offered to let me pay someone to come and scrub the animal fur and bad housekeeping out of our house. I kind of want to lick him inappropriately for that but really…is there such a thing as inappropriately licking your own husband?

However, in order to have someone come and clean the house, one must first unearth said house from 5 years of clutter. Particularly if the inept housekeeper in question is an accidental packrat. Not a packrat in the “I save sugar packets and fingernail clippings and you will probably one day see my face on a poster at the post office” sense but more of an “oops, I forgot to throw away those seven hundred receipts and empty lip gloss tubes and look! I have gum!” kind of adorably endearing manner. (Shut up, that’s my story and if you try and tell me otherwise I will break your kneecaps…I’m sure there’s a hammer in here somewhere…) I have always laughed at the whole concept of cleaning your house before someone comes to clean it but guess what? When your bedroom floor is currently doubling as a storage facility for every purse you’ve carried in the last 18 months and a years worth of magazines and books, nobody can clean your damn floor because they can’t SEE IT and they don’t vacuum around it like you’ve learned to do. Because of this revelation I am going to have to apologize to a whole multitude of people, starting with my mother.

Therefore, I commenced upon the “Great Declutter of 2006”. I even took pictures. Because it was so overwhelming that I died a little inside. Also? Patrick laughed and maybe cried a little when he checked the fine print of the marriage contract and saw that “hidden packrat tendencies” didn’t qualify for a get out of jail free card. But if he ever asks you, please corroborate my story that short sleeved button down shirts (other than the ones he must wear to work) ARE on that list. Thanks.

Clutter 1

Clutter 3

Clutter 2

Clutter 4

I should probably, in the spirit of full disclosure, explain that this pile came only from a few purses and after seeing just how bad it was, I swept the whole mess into a trash can and aborted the method of being thorough and just dumped it all in a cardboard box, picked through it in kind of a half-assed way and decided that since I didn’t know what was in there in the first place, I most likely didn’t need it. And I should also probably tell you that the fourth picture is an “after” picture… I CAN report that I discovered seventy two ponytail holders and six tubes of Nars lip gloss that I thought were dead to me. It was kind of like Christmas. Only it sucked because it involved cleaning. And organization. Because everyone knows Christmas is all about making a big ass mess.

Published by PaintingChef on 29 Nov 2006

There was probably something in there about always wearing lipstick too…

I imagine there are a few moments in the life of a parent where they realize they have the opportunity to pass on some morsel of age-old wisdom to their children. Milestones, split seconds where it occurs to you that you are raising another human being, someone’s future husband or wife, someone’s future IN-LAWS and what a monumentally huge task that really is. Whether its the first day of school, counseling a new driver, watching your child walk out the door on their first date, helping them pack for college, plan a wedding, become a parent themselves, I can’t imagine how overwhelming the task of parenting must be. Because…you know…I’m not one. I have a dog and a cat and can’t even keep those fuckers in line.

But I do HAVE parents. And so I’ve been on the receiving end of some of these pearls of wisdom. On the first day of school my mother told me to poke the mean boys in the stomach. When I got my license, my father shared the holy trinity of why it is safer to drive at night (fewer cars on the road, you can see headlights from further away and you can pick your nose without anyone seeing you) and as I prepared to get married my mother pulled me aside and looked me quite seriously in the eyes and told me to NEVER screw this one up because hot damn I got me a good man followed by my father’s whispered advice right before I walked down the aisle to never let him forget how lucky he was…

However it was my mother’s parting advice as they were leaving after moving me into my freshman dorm that, for some reason, always sticks with me. Advice that her mother passed along to her at that same pivotal moment in a young girl’s life. Wisdom that neither of us chose to follow but remember fondly, nonetheless…

“Spend your free time outside the business building. Those boys are going to have the most money.”

Thanks mom…

Three Generations of Wisdom...

What was some of the best advice you remember receiving?

Published by PaintingChef on 28 Nov 2006

Maggie Mason would probably not approve…

I’m so sad. So terribly let down. I’m thinking I may just have to curl up and have a little cry. You see, its been an entire week since I’ve graced my employer with my presence. Which means that its been an entire week since I dug through my “work bag” to see what sort of goodies I’m taking to work with me. Work bag staples include my camera, a few bottles of green tea, some trashy tabloid magazines and my books du jour (currently Maggie Mason’s blogging book and The Infertility Cure by Randine Lewis. Oh, and the Coach and Sephora catalogs, you know…shopping porn.)

But as I was “organizing” (read…transporting junk from bag A to bag B) I came across not one but TWO! Yes TWO! Trashy tabloid magazines that I hadn’t ever read! And they were old! Almost a month old! So while I am trying desperately to find a way to use this as a cautionary tale against organizing, sadly, I think I’m just a forgetful goon.

I have missed out on all this gossip! Drama on the Grey’s Anatomy set. Ashlee Simpson having even MORE plastic surgery. Some country singer with prettier hair than me is in rehab.

Holy crap on a cracker! Did you know that Tom Cruise…never mind…I can’t even make a joke out of it.

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Nov 2006

Still trying to decide…

Within five minutes of Patrick’s sister, her husband, and their two children arriving it became my job to take the two year old boy to the bathroom. It took me a full three minutes to realize that this particular project would go much smoother were I willing to put down my drink. This is a sign of one of two things. Either I’m just not ready to be a parent or I would have made a FABULOUS fifties housewife…

Published by PaintingChef on 21 Nov 2006

The most amazing part is that he married me any damn way!

One of my good friends and her husband have just started building a house. I am now firmly convinced that nothing is more trying on a marriage except putting the big and little forks in the wrong place in the silverware drawer. Or maybe leaving the toilet seat up in the middle of the night.

In eavesdropping on their many phone conversations, I can’t help but be reminded of the house-hunting trip that Patrick and I first took before moving down here to Augusta. It was, to say the least, a whirlwind. We had three days to find a house, neither of us had ever purchased or even LOOKED at a house, Patrick was still in school and we knew nothing about Augusta (I hadn’t ever even been here before and Patrick had only been here once and had gotten lost in a big white Lincoln in the WRONG part of town late at night within the first hour of arriving). Did I mention the kicker where we weren’t even engaged and Patrick (who will, to this day, deny it) broke out in hives at the slightest mention of the words future, marriage, or engagement?

We arrived in Augusta hungover and desperately in need of showers, having spent the previous night in the back of a Suburban in a parking lot in Savannah, GA after partying rock star style at St. Patrick’s Day. We laughed all the way to Augusta because after a night of beads, bars and lots and lots of alcohol, we were now on our way to a swanky hotel for three days, a bill footed by Patrick’s future employer, where we would be buying a house. It seemed almost too ironic for even us to comprehend.

In between random fits of giggles, we tentatively talked about what kind of house we wanted. We each had our requirements; I wanted a bathtub I could bathe an elephant in and a kitchen that would comfortably accommodate seventy three people. Patrick wanted a 16 car garage and trees. It quickly became obvious to me that my bathtub and kitchen were secondary as we went through the same ritual with each house. Tape measure in hand, head to the garage first. Under 24 feet long? Turn around and walk out. Who knew a boat had so much more pull than I did?

To this day, I still tease Patrick about the whole process. About my breakdown one night after perhaps six margaritas too many where I cried about helping my boyfriend choose a bachelor pad. And about his decision, a couple of months later, to bring his father instead of me to the closing. (Which, no matter how hard I try to say I don’t hold a grudge and that it all turned out just fine, still stings a little) We laugh about getting busted by the next door neighbor slinking around the house again just to take one more look and how he must have gone inside and reported to his wife that there were CHILDREN buying the house next door!

But by god, the boat fits in that damn garage.

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