Archive for October, 2007

Published by PaintingChef on 30 Oct 2007

Yes. I did end up learning what SCUBA really stands for.

My battle with sleep has not gone without documentation. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you scroll down just a smidge you’ll be smacked in the face with me documenting the hell out of it.

But last night as I was trying to fall asleep and doing one of my many variations on the “Little Stone Cottage” theory, which happens to involve decorating a fabulous house room by room and then throwing a party full of glittery people (in which I am, naturally, quite thin and lovely) these strange little irrational fears kept creeping in. (I would also like to tell whoever it was that commented on a previous insomnia post that they, also, build and decorate a dream house THANK YOU. By god I’m either normal or a little less lonely in this particular brand of crazy. Let’s make out.)

I am no stranger to completely irrational fears. To name just one… I can’t swim in a pool (or be in water, period) alone. Why? Well… because I’ll get eaten. By a shark. Totally unfounded? Yes. Hilariously stupid and ridiculous? Absolutely. But not once has that kept me from having a panic attack if I’m alone in water. I’m a great swimmer; I was even briefly a lifeguard in college. But somehow that doesn’t stop that ubiquitous pool light under the diving board from somehow materializing into the eye of a big ass shark with a taste for deep fried white girl with a side of bitch soufflé.

So there I was. Minding my own business. Trying to decide on the perfect chandelier for my serene and spa-like oasis of a master bathroom with a giant claw foot tub surrounded by columns and a very tasteful water feature when my imagination was assaulted by an image that did not fit in a 7,000 square foot Victorian lake house in the least. I was scuba diving (!) in the ocean (!) at a shipwreck (!) and stuck in some horrendous pipe-like maze (!) and my air tank breathing underwater apparatus (as you could probably guess, I know nothing about scuba diving nor do I intend to. You will not find any proper names here and if pressed I would probably tell you that SCUBA stood for “Scary Confusing Underwater Boneheaded Adventure.” But that’s just me.) decided to stop working. It was very bad. And even when I tried to move on to stocking the stone wine cellar accessed through the door under the curved staircase the image hung in my mind and haunted me.

Which leaves only one question… Is the water feature perhaps too much? Because really. Let’s be honest. Is there such a thing as a “tasteful” indoor waterfall? It might all be a little too “Donald Trump” and maybe I should just stick with a nice fern or perhaps a ficus.

Published by PaintingChef on 26 Oct 2007

Lacking in photographic evidence.

“Patrick! Come down here! You must see this most impressive mess ever!”

“So that noise really was something?”

“Oh yes. It was a tragedy that resulted from me cleaning. See. CLEANING. This is why CLEANING is such a bad thing!”

“Yes. I’m certain whatever happened wouldn’t have dared take place if you hadn’t decided to clean.”

“Shut up. I was putting away shoes and I dropped one of them on Lilly’s bowl and now look! There is cat food EVERYWHERE! It’s even in the sink and the toilet! It JUMPED ACROSS THE BATHROOM INTO THE TOILET!”

“Would you like me to fetch the camera? This is kind of picture-worthy.”

“Oh good god no. Look at what a wreck our bathroom is; I don’t want people to see this!”

“Yes. Because I’m certain that the inch think layer of dry cat food covering the entire floor and cabinet and spilling out into the bedroom would be overshadowed by that dirty mirror and cluttered countertop.”

“Patrick. The counter is cluttered with trashy chick lit books. That screams ‘I READ ON THE CRAPPER!’ Don’t you think that is a little too personal?”

“You worry about books on the bathroom counter but you tell the internet about your uterus?”

“Well. Yes.”

“What does an aneurism feel like?”

Published by PaintingChef on 23 Oct 2007

Warm and fuzzy… consider yourself warned.

(Things should look a little different around here. If they don’t then you may want to hit refresh a time or two)

As I was climbing into bed Sunday night I cuddled up to Patrick and in a wine induced fog slurred in his ear the following words…

“I’m so happy. I have my two favorite people right here under my roof.”

Which is kind of cheesy and lame. But not untrue in the least. Betsy came and spent a few days in Augusta and it was… blissful. We sat outside in the warm afternoon sunshine and drank wine and snacked on cheese and apples until we were too full to go to the Mexican restaurant and have margaritas and cheese dip so that sweet, sweet husband of mine went and picked the aforementioned necessities for us. He’s a keeper that one…

We spent most of Monday out on the screened in porch making picture books of our trip to Napa until Patrick came home. Then we cleaned up and convinced him to do a little heavy lifting before we grilled pizzas and spent another long evening lingering over wine and the kind of easy conversation that can only happen when you are with people you truly love and trust.

And then there was today. Today was lovely. After a delicious night of sleep and dreams, Betsy and I reconvened on the couch where we spent a few hours having “couch time”. This is exactly what it sounds like. Two sisters in their pajamas on the couch. Hanging out and chatting and watching some Stephen Colbert. Oh, and eating brownies. Because let’s be serious…woman cannot live on Colbert alone.

Sadly, I had to take her to the airport this evening and send her home to her husband but I’m so grateful for the past three days because they were the very picture of perfection. There are very few people I enjoy being in the company of more than Betsy. (Yes, we had a few rough years when I was kind of a tool but who hasn’t?) The thing about my sister is that she is amazing. She is smart and kind and beautiful inside and out. I love her with all of my heart and every time we have a few days like this I get a little gooey inside and I can only hope that somewhere inside my cold black heart is a faint glimmer of the things that glow in her.

Published by PaintingChef on 18 Oct 2007

Happy Thursday.

Falling asleep at night has never been a low stress and relaxing thing for me because it’s never been easy. Oh how I envy those people who are asleep almost before their heads hit the pillow. They know nothing of the up and down, tossing and turning of my world. The time I spend battling hot and cold, hair up or down (resulting in either a headache or a rat’s nest in the morning), and why is that damn song still in my head!! Let us not even speak of the things that march through your mind when you are trying to relax enough to fall asleep. It’s been covered here… (As has my sleep cocktail that miraculously cuts the falling asleep time to under an hour, no small feat for me).

But there are a few sounds that normally instantly relax me. A nighttime thunderstorm, “Cowboys and Angels” by George Michael (don’t ask, there is no explanation), and train whistles. We are in the midst of a record breaking drought so there are no thunderstorms to speak of and Patrick would probably never recover from a continuous assault of George Michael on his delicate ears. But I always have my train whistles, or so I thought.

Last night there was a symphony of trains coming from every direction and as I heard them I felt myself trying to relax but to no avail. I still tossed and I turned. I flipped my pillow. I got up to find a ponytail holder. I refilled my water. I cuddled with Belle. I decorated my imaginary house and planned a vacation to Italy. And the clock ticked on.

I did finally fall asleep around 2 am. Which worked out really well until I apparently started dreaming that I was awake and getting ready for work…

I woke up at 7:45 this morning. A full fifteen minutes after I usually leave for work. Today is AWESOME.

Published by PaintingChef on 16 Oct 2007

Further confessions of a domestic goddess.

In the absence of anything actually interesting to tell you, my dear internet, I will instead give you evidence of my domestic goddess-ness.

In the form of homemade ravioli.



Which most people would label “get a fucking life.”

I offer this up as a distraction from the impressive lack of domestication shown by my unswept kitchen floors and the vacuum cleaner which sits in the doorway between my living and dining rooms abandoned once I realized I would need to empty the canister in the trash can outside for said appliance to not do more harm than good. (In the form of vomiting hairballs all over my carpet). Clearly homemade past dough stuffed with little bits of goat cheese and fresh basil would be an easier way to spend one’s time, no? And as I discovered, if you just stack all the junk mail and clutter up at one end of the kitchen there is plenty of room to roll out pasta dough and fling about flour which is promptly licked up by a cat.



I also beg you to pay no attention to my husband pulling his clean clothes from the dryer and not his dresser. Or to the fact that he has been doing this for a week.

Because as is clearly shown by the homemade ravioli… we domestic goddesses have no time for trivial things such as laundry. Or, apparently, shaving our legs.


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