Archive for April, 2007

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Apr 2007

At some point I switched to the third person. She asks you to ignore this.

Although the content of this blog would lead you to believe otherwise, I do, in fact, love both painting and cooking (chefing?). And Sunday evening, after he had worked all damn day (and possibly the day before) on the Massive Project of Which We Are Trying Not To Speak, I thought to myself… what could POSSIBLY be a better idea than asking my poor, exhausted husband with roofing tar (?) in some very odd places (??) clean this whole deck off so that I may carry loads and loads of foodie items in bowls out to the tacky green plastic table I normally pot plants on because all the good furniture has been hidden away from the MPoWWATNTS and the potential mayhem it presents. All because his wife (that would be me) spent the afternoon in the cool, cool air conditioned luxury of her house thinking about doing laundry and wondering if she had the mental prowess to convince the laundry to wash and fold itself while she watched Bobby Flay grill some pizzas. (She didn’t, by the way, the laundry still sits in its original home in the basket.)

So naturally, she got up off the couch after neglecting to make said hard working and sweet husband lunch (after all, she had fed him breakfast at 11:30… what more could he possibly want) , looks up a good pizza crust recipe online and putting on a skirt and cute shoes, she heads off to the store.

What follows is photographic evidence of my culinary prowess. And my latent dirty redneck tendencies. (Click on pictures to enlarge)

A Horrible Mess
The Outdoor “Kitchen”
Crust 1
Crust 2
Chef Patrick and his Battle Wound
Patrick’s Pizza
Susannah’s Pizza
Finished Product

And then Patrick had to go and drive his damn truck through the backyard.

Truck in the Backyard

Published by PaintingChef on 26 Apr 2007

again with the short but not so sweet.

Dear many roofing companies…

I hate you all.

The End.


Perhaps I should elaborate… (Thus rendering the whole short portion of the program null and void but I will do my best to stick to the “not so sweet” promise as I am nothing if not reliable. Although you apparently cannot rely on me lately to post. Because as this is demonstrating we are currently the all home improvements all the time channel. And also because I feel kind of guilty about ignoring you for days and then sticking ten words on a page.)

I came from a do-it-yourself family. And married into yet another do-it-yourself family. So I am down with the do-it-your-damn-self way of thinking. We are building this deck ourselves. And, as previously stated, by “ourselves” I am, of course, referring to Patrick, the neighbors we bribe with beer and my ability to stand and point and say “make that different.”

Roofing, apparently, is a totally different animal. Because until you get to the roof, things can be… “fudged” a bit. But if a roof isn’t just right then it’s a pointless roof because it will rain on your damn head. And that is the very definition of a shitty roof. Patrick would apparently like to avoid being the guy with the shitty roof so “we” made the executive decision to hire someone to finish the roof and are now in the process of interviewing roofers.

I now hate roofers. If you are a roofer then I am very sorry. And unless you have personally stood on my new and beautiful deck and with a thoughtful squinty look on your face as you gaze up at my gorgeous (if still unfinished) screened in porch (with no screen… yes, I know) and then proceed to tell me how you are going to stick your entire left leg up my ass then we’re probably cool. Also? If you are a roofer and want to roof my porch for under $500 then I’ll love you forever. I might even bake you a cake.

But this is stressing Patrick out. Which is stressing me out. And when we are both all twitchy and on edge we get kind of bitchy. And we only have each other to bitch at. So I also hate roofers because they are making me meaner than normal. And Patrick is so sweet. He’s building me a porch… and one day that porch will grow a roof of its very own.

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Apr 2007

I can’t trust anyone anymore.

I have this recent overwhelming desire to get a kitten. This presents a problem on many levels. The first being that I agreed to a rule Patrick suggested several years ago that our four legged family members not outnumber the two legged ones. That rule sucks and I’m kind of trying to ignore it.

When I finally summoned up the balls to tell Patrick I wanted to get a kitten he looked at me like I’d just informed him I’d booked a balcony suite on the Titanic Revival Cruise and then proceeded to sit in complete silence for a full 2 minutes. The 2. Longest. Minutes. Of. My. Life. Aside from the two minutes spent in a high school bathroom staring at a pregnancy test. Those were endless.

Another problem would be this little angel…

I Will Cut You

I don’t think she’s going to take kindly to a new cat. Patrick thinks her feelings would be hurt. I know her a little better and I’m sort of afraid she would eat the kitten, hack up a hairball in the kitchen and then go about her daily chore of stealing every ponytail holder in the house. But I think that passes…

He also expressed concern that Belle would become a forgotten middle child. I politely informed him that it is somewhat difficult to ignore a 60 pound lump on your lap or in your bed. Especially when it looks at you like this…

Dammit.  Play with me.

When I told my mother about it this whole kitten thing this weekend she gave me very sound advice as she watched me scour the classifieds for kittens. She said “Perhaps this is one of those instances where my mantra of ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission’ isn’t applicable” and insisted that just showing up with a kitten while my parents were in town so that Patrick wouldn’t yell about it was a Very Bad Plan that she would not be party to.

I’m not positive but I think my mother threatened to rat me out…

Published by PaintingChef on 23 Apr 2007

Short and sweet while I recover my sanity.

In just three short days, the word “Daddy. PLEASE do not electrocute my husband” came out of my mouth no less than 10 times. It was only when I gently pointed out that in the event of Patrick’s electrocution I would find my ass right back on his doorstep that he started paying a little attention to the damn electrical panel. Nothing like threatening a parent with the reacquisition of a child to keep them in line.

Published by PaintingChef on 19 Apr 2007

A rambling mess that will surely piss off someone. Also? How to clean the top of your fridge.

While I have no qualms writing about my own parents I generally refrain from mentioning my in-laws. This is for a few reasons. One being that while he doesn’t read it with any regularity, Patrick DOES read this website and those are his parents I am talking about. It’s no secret between he and I that the relationship is strained at best and that we rarely see eye to eye on… anything. But that’s no reason he needs to read about it on the internet. Another reason would be that while I don’t expect his parents to stumble across this website, it could happen. I stand firm in that if I won’t say it to your face, you won’t read it here but the shock of finding yourself mentioned on your son’s wife’s website could prompt what I imagine would be an uncomfortable phone conversation. Much as would her fondness for the word “fuck” and all its various uses…

But I am breaking that rule because this has been on my mind all week.

In what will probably become one of the biggest mistakes of my life, my mother-in-law and I had a rather frank discussion about religion (and life in general) this past weekend prompted by her asking me why we had not yet found a church. I’m quite certain alcohol had to be involved otherwise I would have NEVER stepped a single foot onto this minefield with her. My in-laws are the people who go to church every Sunday morning, sit, stand, pray, sing and then go home. Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night. I attempted to very rationally explain to her my frustration with the religious “environment” in our area and how sad the general attitude makes me but from our conversation I was left with the distinct impression that I am somehow viewed as… less… because I have no interest in just going through the motions like I think they do.

I have no doubt that I am a good person although when held next to Patrick’s, my halo is somewhat tarnished and crooked. I maintain that this gives it character. But this conversation was re-visited later while we were out running around and my mother-in-law expressed her distaste for this small magnet I have on my car…


We once again ventured into the area of the general attitude of the churches we’ve visited in this area and why you couldn’t pay me enough to raise my child(ren) around that kind of hypocrisy. Bearing in mind, we live in Augusta, GA and so far, it’s been my experience that I don’t care what word they slap on the sign it’s one big giant Baptist church. She questioned how in the world I could put a Muslim symbol on my car after what “they” had done to our country. But my feeling is this. Those extremists are no more accurately representing the god they claim to worship than “Christians” who bomb abortion clinics and kill the doctors who perform the procedures all the while believing they are serving their god and that theirs is the only way.

I, on the other hand, want to teach my children to learn about everything and everyone. To find their own truth and to make an educated decision based on their own heart. And for my part in this I will do everyhting I can to raise them to be good and kind people. To accept every idea and to hunger for knowledge. But the decision will be theirs and it will come from their experiences and beliefs, not mine.

This, naturally, led to an uncomfortable silence until I said “Look! Shoes!” and bought some adorable four inch platform wedges with embroidery all down the sides. I was quite excited to wear them yesterday until I busted my ass while brushing my teeth. I ended up wearing flats instead. The shoes did have one huge benefit though. When I was standing in front of the fridge that morning I was able to see just how much dust accumulates on the top. Thanks new shoes.

Other things my mother-in-law and I disagreed on? That I will feel old in 6 months when I turn 30 (she thinks that is ridiculous) and antique stores are creepy because they are full of dead people’s furniture (a principle on which I stand firmly.)

So. To recap. No to church in the south. Yes to cleaning the house in 4 inch heels. No to sleeping in a hundred year old bed.

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