Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

I feel like we’re all friends here so we can have the following moment of “serious talk”…

This serious talk is prompted by two things that kind of smacked me in the head with the subtlety of Kelly Taylor’s Halloween costume in that episode where she almost gets attacked by that random in the Robin Hood costume (or was he a cowboy?) at the party who then eventually does show back up years later (but not as the same guy) and finishes the job. Or, if you prefer, Donna Martin’s mermaid costume. Or that crazy ass red prom dress that Scarlett O’Hara let her borrow.

The first is that, as you probably DON’T realize because you had long given up hope on us, We Three Bitches is on the verge of being up and running again. Yes I know… blah, blah, blah, we promised like a zillion months ago that we were going to get our shit back together and resume telling you how to live your lives and which shoes left the most obvious marks when you threw them at your baby daddies and then we just did nothing and the same post sat there from November something-ish until like… two days ago. We suck… duly noted… thank you.

But things are moving again. We are answering questions. Most likely questions that needed an answer six months ago, but we are answering questions. So three(ish) days ago I attempted to find the box my bitch hat had been packed in, dust it off, fluff the feathers, don my Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Dexter Rowan shoulder pads and get back down to the business of straightening out the mess you’ve made of your life. And there I sat. Because the bitchiness? For the most part, she has left the building. And I’m a little sad about it.

So last night, as I was making cupcakes (SEE!?!? CUPCAKES! If I were still mean and nasty I would have made just a normal cake. That’s easy to store. Not cupcakes that have to be individually iced and handled. Because I could have been watching Stephen Colbert! Okay, I was watching Stephen Colbert and making cupcakes at the same time. But still… CUPCAKES! Am I becoming a childless soccer mom? Or are cupcakes worse because they are individual projectiles?) I started to think about where the evil and the snark could have possibly been packed and what must be in the box with them that I haven’t deemed important enough to look for. (The obvious choice would be with the vacuum cleaner. But even that has been found, unpacked and appropriately shoved in the closet to be forgotten about as it should be in a house with two dogs, a cat and a wife who sheds like a Yeti.)

And that’s when it hit me. I think I need new stuff to be mad about. Let’s review the things that used to make me go all Courtney Love on people…

Augusta – Obviously we’ve taken care of that. I’ve found my way back home to east Tennessee. Something that really hit home as I was driving to work this morning and watching the sun come up over the mountains (MOUNTAINS!) and everything was deliciously orange and gold and blue and I nearly cried that my camera was sitting next to my dresser. It was so lovely that I didn’t even have the good sense to realize that I was WATCHING THE SUN COME UP. IN THE MORNING.

Fertility Drugs – Pretty much not happening. Once I realized that I wasn’t going to have kids by the time I was thirty; I kind of chilled the fuck out about the whole thing. We are… NOT trying anymore. And maybe we will again at some point. But my baby fever has left the building. I like sleeping late on the weekends. I like coming home from work and putting on pajamas at 5:30 and watching Paula Deen deep fry some butter. (I kid. 5:30 is devoted to 90210. Yesterday Brandon drove drunk! And wrecked Mondale!) Regardless though, I have quit pumping myself full of fertility drugs, at least for the time being, and that seems to have left me with a little hole in my previous meanness.

Work Situation – Let’s be clear. I loved my old job. I worked with very cool people and I had pretty much zero responsibility. Not a bad gig. But as ridiculous as this may sound, my new job is much more… fulfilling. I feel like it matters if I show up for work or not. My presence is vital to making this place run and I kind of dig that. I stay busy pretty much all day. Something you’ve probably noticed by my absence on the internet… both here and staying caught up with the goings on of all you magnificent people. (See! Like that? I’m just so damn cheerful. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?)

Plus? I work with my dad. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl and have to make a concentrated effort to just call him Dad at work and not Daddy. Sometimes I even call him Bill on the phone when speaking about him to someone else. This is a huge step. But hanging out with him during the day is kind of fantastic.

So there you have it. Life? Sometimes doesn’t suck. Not even a little.

I was listening to Good Morning America on the radio this morning on my way to work because my iPod was frozen and it’s been so long since I last lived in Tennessee that all the radio stations have changed and I don’t know which ones are good anymore. And by good I mean the ones that don’t play country music because showing up to work with my ears bleeding in a homicidal rage seems like bad form for the second week on the job. Oh. And also because I like to listen to Good Morning America because I kind of have this theory that Chris Cuomo and Sam Champion not so secretly hate each other and I like to listen for evidence of that. Plus… you know… sometimes it’s kind of nice to know what is going on in the world.

Which brings me to what I was going to mention…

Did anyone else hear about this kid who was going to try and hijack an airplane and crash it into a Hannah Montana concert? And am I the only person in the world who had to ask who in hell Hannah Montana was and why her parents would be so cruel as to name her… well… Hannah Montana? Only to find out that she is actually the daughter of none other than the mullet king himself Billy Ray Cyrus? And that she has created this entire empire based on someone who is having an identity crisis herself? And that her actual name is NOT Hannah Montana at all?

Haven’t we seen this already? Years ago back in the eighties? When she called herself Jem, was truly, truly truly outrageous and she, along with the rest of the Holograms, had the good sense to stay animated?

We are settling in. We are becoming acquainted, me and this new house. I am learning about her (as I have decided that much like yachts, houses are most likely feminine) and hopefully she is finding a few things out about me too. I cannot speak for Patrick’s dance with her as we each go about things differently. But I am slowly seeing myself in the kitchen and the living room, the two places I spend most of my time. I am introducing my things to her empty spaces. She is making room for my clutter. I find myself silently apologizing to her for not liking her when I first arrived. “It wasn’t you,” I hear myself saying, “It was me. My other half wasn’t here yet and without him, I can’t find a way to make you my own.”

But corner by corner, wall by wall and eventually room by room, we are coming to an understanding. I don’t wake up confused in the middle of the night and take a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and when my bare foot is no longer startled to land on cold wood. And I certain that the next time I stretch out in her mile-long very deep tub she will offer up a little more hot water as some bits and pieces of me were quite chilled poking up out of the bubbles…

I watch my animals each settle in to her in their own ways as well. Belle is realizing that this is her home as well and no longer looks at us with absolute terror when we leave in the morning. She is finding her resting spots and becoming accustomed to new creaks in the middle of the night.

Luna is finding a few soft places that fit her requirements of allowing her curl up while always maintaining an eagle eye on Lilly. But fortunately for Luna, the house is quite open and Lilly’s favorite resting spot (which she promptly discovered after one lap around the house in which she hardly touched the floor) is on top of the kitchen cabinets where she is in plain sight. Once you know where to look.

So we are all coming around. I am allowing our first house to find its place in my memory and slowly but surely, I am once again home. If not yet in my new life, at least in my new house.

Can I just say something here? This working full time shit is for the birds…

Alright, let me back it up a minute and catch you up because I can’t remember how much I’ve told you about my new work/life situation and just between you and me… I’m a wee bit too lazy to look back through the terribly dull and repetitive shit I’ve spewed over the past few months to find out for certain.

You see… my father owns a construction-related company. And I am now working for him as his office manager. A job that, wholly unlike my previous work-adjacent situation, requires concentration, effort, and a general comprehension of basic accounting (which would include basic mathematics so it might as well be Sanskrit to me.) I kind of thought this would be a fun and novel thing for a minute but as Monday January 14th drew closer and closer I suddenly realized that this arrangement would require things somewhat foreign to me. Like grocery shopping at night. And getting my nails done on the weekends. With the rest of the world. (Yes, I do feel your heart breaking for me.)

So as day 2 of my new job has drawn to a close I have started to form some thoughts. The first, and most important of which is this… it’s going to be fine. Once I figure out what the hell is going on and can do so without my dad (who happens to be equally clueless about accounting) standing over my shoulder, I think things will move quite smoothly and hopefully a little speedier than they are right now. I think I will be able to have a little time back for myself, maybe even pick up a paintbrush or a camera again. Eventually I will feel like I know what I’m doing and I might even be productive and helpful in some shape, form or fashion. But for the foreseeable future it looks like I’m officially a 40 hour a week girl again.

Dear Verizon Broadband…

I adore you. Now I can once again sit on my bed and keep track of which Spears daughter is flying her crazy flag today. I’ve felt quite out of the loop. Did you know Amy Winehouse cut off all her hair and went blonde? And apparently Nicole Richie is incubating something other than a human because she has been pregnant for like thirty seven months at this point. And let’s not even talk about Pamela Anderson supposedly being knocked up because somehow, Verizon Broadband, I don’t think you care.

Anyway. I decided that the funk I have been in since moving and bouncing around in this house all alone was a combination of two things, both of which are now resolved. First… I was alone. And I’ve never done well alone. But Patrick is back which means that not only am I not alone but the dog no longer hates me because she no longer thinks that I sent her most prized person ever packing. Have you ever encountered a golden retriever who is under the impression that you ruined their world? I wouldn’t recommend it. And secondly? I feel a little less isolated because I have internet again. And I’m not even afraid to admit it. So there.

As a matter of fact, I’m feeling so shiny and happy that I will give you the first glimpse into the new digs… without even moving the trash bag OR the empty beer case. Because I’m that kind of girl.

Much love,
PaintingChef