Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Have you ever hung up from a phone conversation and instantly known that A) you just completely overshared and B) you will now be scarred for life as “Crazy _______ Lady?”

Allow me to explain… you see this past weekend as I was laying on the beach soaking up the skin cancer and premature wrinkles otherwise known as the sun (under a veil of SPF 30… back off), I was reading my horoscope and came across something unusual and troubling. Then another thought flashed through my head and the two inches of brown roots that have taken up residence beside my scalp.

Fast forward to today. And the following conversation…

“Good afternoon. Retreat Spa and Salon. May I help you?”

“Yes. Hi. This is Susannah Perry and I have an appointment that I need to reschedule.”

“Alright. And when was that appointment?”

“It was on August 10th at 2:30 for a cut and foils. And I need to reschedule it until September because my horoscope said to not have my hair cut this month.”

“…”

“I promise I’m not completely nuts. I’ve just never had a horoscope be that direct, usually they say little things about possibly coming into money which NEVER happens or perhaps having a little office flirtation but I’m married and work with a bunch of tools so I ignore those parts too but this one specifically said ‘If nothing else, please remember you must not cut your hair this month’ and that scared me a little so I’d like to reschedule please.”

“I see that you are also scheduled for a facial at 1:00 that day. Has anyone warned you against that?”

“No, no, I’d like to keep the appointment for a facial, just reschedule the cut and color please.”

“Because your horoscope told you to.”

“Yes. And I assure you that I fully expect you to pass this one around, I totally would too. But if you don’t believe me then by all means, pick up an August JANE magazine and flip to the horoscope. I’m a Virgo.”

“You do realize that this means you are going to be pushing your color out another month, right? You know… because of a horoscope?”

“Yes. Thank you. So you’ve got that rescheduled?”

“I do. I’ve rescheduled your cut and color because of your horoscope.”

(At this point I can hear other people in the background and I’m just cursing my facialist for being so damn good and wondering if she’ll make house calls because obviously ever showing my face again at this place is completely out of the question)

“Yes. That’s me. Crazy Horoscope Lady. Thanks for your help. Shall I wear a nametag so you’ll know it’s me when I come in?”

“Oh no. I think I’ll remember this phone call.”

“Okay! Thanks! Bye!”

And I know that I should be irritated with snarky phone lady but to be honest? She was way nicer than I would have been if the situation had been reversed. She erred more on the side of disbelief whereas I would have gone with outright mockery and ridicule…

For the record… a very scientific survey of three friends, my mother and Patrick showed that 3 out of 5 people would do the same thing.

I am what you might call woefully bad at things that good southern girls are supposed to be… not woefully bad at. Thank you notes. Christmas cards. Returning phone calls. Laundry. (Although I do promise that if you are on my back porch your glass of sweet tea will always be freshly filled with wine and I will tell you repeatedly that you look lovely in that outfit.) I kind of lump the whole internet-meme-award-what have you fuzziness in with this group of “Things at Which I Suck.”

Which is why I’ve been so remiss after not one, not two, but THREE fabulous internet bitches felt like hanging this little jewel on me.

Ladies? Thank you. You, also, rock. I suppose that technically I should… um… pick 15 of you? But that? Really isn’t going to happen? So my super-duper high-tech mathematical formula has determined that I will name 7(ish) of you instead.

The story goes that you if I say you rock then you must tell 5 other people that they also rock. Meh. Whatever. If you are so inclined then by all means, pull up your legwarmers, tie on your headband, yank that ripped sweatshirt off one shoulder and rock away. Love is a battlefield baby.

Oh. I should probably also tell you to please enjoy these rockin’ girl bloggers for a few days. Because I shall be locked away in the dark ages.

Well. If the dark ages took place in a sangria haze on the beach without internet access…

Hi.

So ladies? Rock on.

Zube Girl – Was there ever any doubt that one third of my internet love triangle would be on this list?

Bonanza Jellybean – Or the other third? Please. I love these bitches like new shoes. Also? Bonanza? The phone tag we’re playing? Makes Ptrick giggle like a girl.

Mist – She’s become my first stop every morning, it’s all about her and I love it.

Les Cadeaux – Rocks in more of a “you are my grown up girl idol and if I lived near you I would invite you to all my parties” kind of way.

Jennsylvania – Famous, incredible author, as you read this I’m probably re-reading one of her two side-splitting books for the umpteenth time. On the beach.

Statia – Never failed to approach infertility with attitude and plenty of profanity. That’s my kind of girl.

Jurgen Nation – Love. Wonderful photographer, always insightful. Also? Would probably stalk if I were to live near her.

There you go. A smattering of my 7 favorite, most profanity-laden and attitude-a-plenty spots on the internet. Two things I find to be most imperative for rocking.

Now I really must return to the beach. That sangria is NOT going to drink itself and the lack of dedication I have so far given to achieving the perfect shade of brown legs would make the baby jesus weep. I’m so ashamed.

Should I ever find myself temporarily insane and perhaps taking stupid for a moment and decide to go back to school, I will most likely use the lessons I’ve learned this past weekend to make the whole experience more… palatable.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

On Friday night, one of Patrick’s oldest friends and his wife stayed with us. It was quite tame with some yummy food and I made a dessert that I’m still proud of what with the white and dark chocolate mousses and the raspberry puree and all the dishes it used. But we sat around and chatted and it was all so very civilized and lovely. And we went to bed at one o’clock in the morning after only one empty wine bottle because only Patrick and I were drinking and we would have totally gone through at least one more and maybe two but didn’t feel the need to look like drinky mcdrunkersteens. I was fine the next day and all was well.

Patrick worked on a paper and I bummed around and then went to the gym. It was a perfectly fine and enjoyable Saturday.

You know… until we went out with some friends for margaritas and cheese dip (a meal that is a staple of my diet.) And as we were leaving the restaurant I invited our friends over for some dessert. Because of all the aforementioned mousses and liquefied fruits that were temporarily taking up room in my refrigerator as a stop-off before setting up permanent residence on my ass.

My benevolence (read: if my ass is going to be big, so is yours) led to a second night of sitting around with the good times and the wonderful conversation (seriously… kick ass screened in porch? Best. Impromptu. Party. Venue. Ever.) but this time with more empty wine bottles. And beer bottles. We went to bed about the same time on Saturday night/Sunday morning but I noticed things were much more spinnier this time around. I am embarrassed to admit that I attempted to employ that trick of putting one foot on the ground. Unfortunately I failed to remember that I sleep in a big tall bed and even the leg hanging off my 5’11” self doesn’t reach the floor. I woke up (at noon) with a hangover and severe pins and needles throughout my entire right leg.

I spent Sunday on the couch watching Platinum Weddings while Patrick slaved away on a paper he’d procrastinated for weeks. I’ve fully recovered from my hangover and am thinking Patrick and I should renew our wedding vows. We will have a big party with an elephant, an ice sculpture martini luge and a traditional cigar roller. You know… for the kids.

And those lessons I mentioned? Always have the parties at your own house. And make sure your feet can reach the ground when you lay in bed with a spinny head while you gulp water and watch Cruel Intentions. Also? When you aren’t a fan of the second bottle of wine you open and so you just set it aside? And then when it is time to open the fifth bottle of wine and it sounds like a good idea to try the shitty wine again? You know, since it’s already open? And sitting on the table? And maybe it just needed to breathe a little? You will be wrong. And hungover.

I was watching Good Morning America this morning when I should have been getting ready for work but instead was procrastinating in my pajamas having just got gotten off the phone with Patrick to tell him that Lilly had finally fallen in the toilet when I saw something that still has me scratching my head. (Something other than a 13 week old kitten catapulting herself out of a toilet bowl)

It was a preview for a story they are running on the local news this evening. I realized I’d been seeing this preview since Monday but this morning, somewhere in between laughing at a half drenched cat running around like crazy trying to dry off and brushing my teeth it finally sunk in why this was so strange. It was a preview for a story on how to tell if the meat you are cooking for your family has gone bad…

I understand that I was a journalism major for all of a year and the majority of that year was spent in an Everclear and Gatorade haze. But I’m pretty sure something ain’t right here… Let us just ignore, for a moment, that BY DEFINITION the news should not have previews. The news should be what is happening right now. “These are the things that you need to be concerned about right this minute. Traffic sucks because people can’t drive and you are an idiot for living in Augusta. Now on to the weather. It’s hot, you fool, don’t go outside.” Don’t tell me what is going to be news in three or four days. I’d prefer you didn’t flash a headline up on the screen on Monday screaming how many people contract food poisoning from bad meat and then tell me how, in four days, you are going to let viewers know how to avoid such atrocities.

Because guess what? Meat is a part of my diet. In between Monday and Thursday I will eat chicken at least twice and some red meat. If it could not kill me, I’d be a happy lady. But instead you choose to show me this little preview every single day with a screenshot of two packages of chicken, each with a little face straight off the pain chart. The un-lethal yard bird has a “nope, no pain here nurse but perhaps a recreational drip of val!um cocktail would make us all that much happier” face while an IDENTICAL PACKAGE is sporting more of a “if you don’t ramp up the drugs immediately I will disembowel you with my pinky toe and knit your entrails into a Christmas stocking for your children” countenance. Since I haven’t seen these particular illustrations in the Kroger’s meat department, I’m guessing there is a little more to it.

What’s next? An April 10th preview for a special story to air on April 16th featuring the “Five Secret Tax Return Mistakes that will Land Your Ass in Jail.” Maybe I’ll TiVo it and watch it from cellblock C.

I spent my morning running errands yesterday. By “morning” I mean the time after I dragged my ass out of bed at ten, had cookies for breakfast, watched Montel try and talk a couple of teenagers (who had clearly made a wrong turn trying to find Jerry Springer) out of getting married, poked around on the internet long enough to realize that I did nothing of note this past weekend, made a grocery list and put on workout clothes. Some people also label this time of morning as 1:00 in the afternoon. I’m not one for details…

Everywhere I drove yesterday, I hemorrhaged money. Time to renew car tags! Oh look! I forgot to mail the water bill and its four days late, guess I’ll pay it in person! Overdue library book that I tried and tried to read and absolutely couldn’t get into! (“The Secret” is still a secret to me… sorry Lianne, I really did try). Out of stamps, let’s go to the post office! Birthday celebrate-y stuff for Patrick! Grocery store! Manicure! (And look! I just lost your sympathy! Exclamation point!)

(At this point, if he is reading this, Patrick’s head is smoking and on the verge of exploding. Happy Birthday sweetie!! I love you!!)

I should point out that all of these errands were accomplished within about a three mile area and I was never in the car for more than 5 or 6 minutes. Therefore it took me almost an hour to listen to “Mint Car” by The Cure what with all the stoppy-starty. And as the day drug on (a day that I had somehow still deluded myself into thinking was all productive since I was running errands in THE MORNING THAT MOST NORMAL PEOPLE CALL “AFTER LUNCH”) I watched it get later and later and the temperature climber higher and higher and my workout clothes were getting so icky from the sweat that resulted from running around in 4000% humidity. I actually ended up going home before I went to the gym and changing into clean workout clothes. (For some reason it seemed bad form to show up at the gym with two-thirds of an iced Caramel Macchiato on my shirt. And socks? How did that happen?)

I went directly from the gym to the grocery store (without passing go or collecting $200 although that would have been a pleasant remedy to the aforementioned hemorrhaging money situation). I’ve found that grocery shopping immediately after a 45 minute sweat on the elliptical (oh who am I kidding, a 45 minute workout and a 2 hour sweat) makes the items in my cart magically more healthy. I notice a distinct lack of cookies and Velveeta shells & cheese and a drastic increase in fruit. This makes me feel all healthy and superior.

But what I couldn’t figure out as I loaded my groceries into my car and drove home was how on earth it had become 5:00 in the evening when all I did was spend the morning running errands.

And PS… Coldstone Creamery? I heart you so very much. Because when Patrick can’t make up his damn mind if he wants a red velvet birthday cake or an ice cream cake, you are there for me with your red velvet ice cream cake. Even if I am going to be digging rainbow sprinkles out of the furniture for the next year.