Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

“So I’m trying to figure out how many swimsuits I need to take to Mexico.”

“Sometimes your life is so taxing. I don’t know how you make it through a day.”

“Well it would be a damn bit easier if you’d pony up a few more diamonds, you know.”

“Yes. I imagine it would be. Anyway… swimsuits you say? I’m sure this will be fascinating. Go on please.”

“Yes Patrick. Swimsuits. I asked Betsy and she said I needed at least three because of the mid-day napping factor and not wanting to put on a damp swimsuit after a little snooze. But I’m not much of a napper and I only have two swimsuits that I like right now. But the is the constant margarita thing to contend with and we all know that whatever I’m drinking, I’m also wearing so I very well may need a third or even fourth bathing suit. Which means one of two things.”

“Are both of these things going to result in you shopping?”

“Well of course. Don’t ask dumb questions… it throws me off track.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“ANYWAY. Either I need to find another swimsuit, which as you know… will throw me into a huge depression that I will only be able to cure with cute shoes and flirty sundresses or you need to pony up for some emergency liposuction so I can wear some of the swimsuits stashed in the bottom of my scary drawer.”

“Really. Those are my choices?”

“Yes. And sweetie… I want you to know that I would be perfectly fine with either one.”

“Hold that thought… I’m going to go jump off a bridge.”

Is it just me or does there seem to be a rash of “my-life-sucksitude” floating around on these here internets? (You can tell I’ve moved back to Tennessee by teh awesomeness of the grammar, no?) Maybe it’s just me but it seems like some of the blogs I read are all drama this and drama that. And that’s cool. Whatever you want to say and whatever floats your boat. I don’t care. It’s why we each have our own little booth in the great giant flea market of the internet, right? (Again with the country. You’d think I had moved AWAY from civilization, not closer to it…)

So in honor of this, I am going to now tell you all the reasons my life DOES. NOT. SUCK. And then when I’m done you can all throw shit at me. Sound good? Guess what? I don’t care. If you don’t like it then move along… I’m certain there is a little old lady peddling funk and misery and doom and gloom just a few booths down. If you’re lucky she may give you five bucks on your birthday tucked into a Snoopy card that smells faintly of old soup.

My life doesn’t suck because I have a husband who allows me to publicly mock him on the internet. He doesn’t complain when he makes his monthly check-in with this website and sees his sweet, sweet words twisted for my sick enjoyment. Also? He totally keeps his mouth shut when I leave clean clothes in the dryer for two weeks. He says its like having a second closet.

My life doesn’t suck because I like my job. Oh sure, fine, I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m just faking it through every day glued a calculator and the Peachtree for Dummies book I keep hidden in my desk. But I work for my dad so I can tell my boss when he needs to suck it. Not only that but I feel like an important part of the company I work for. I truly underestimated how much I would like that…

My life doesn’t suck because I can’t have kids right now. (Blink…blink… you are confused? Yes?) Well, its like this… I think the baby thing hasn’t worked out yet because it just wasn’t time. My pendulum has swung back in the anti-baby direction and I’m pretty sure that once you bring one home… that thing is yours to keep. Yes, I’m quite certain that babies are firmly stamped with a “No-Return” policy. (For the record? When I do have one? It will also come engraved with a “You Break It, You Bought It” disclaimer which will mean that if you make that thing cry you had damn well better fix it. I can’t be having a broken baby. I can barely take care of myself.)

My life doesn’t suck because I have awesome friends. One thing I’ve learned about growing up and getting all old and wrinkly (I’m looking AT YOU FOREHEAD) is that while I may not have as large a group of friends, I cherish them more. In my younger years, I was what you might call a friend-slut. I would make my life over ever year or so and as I explored new interests (or boys) my group of friends would shift. Yes, there were a few who were always there but for the most part, things changed and I think I was a pretty bad friend in my younger years. But now? My girlfriends are so precious to me and I don’t think I truly learned that until I got married and was around a dumb smelly boy all the damn time.

My life doesn’t suck because I have this outlet. I have you, my dear internet. I have a place to air my grievances should my life decide to take a turn for the suckage. And since I am no longer in therapy what with the need to spend money on things like shoes, purses and mascara, (Well… those and the extra luxury items like a mortgage, electricity and food) I find that outlet to be so much more necessary. Not that I don’t miss my therapist… I mean, I love you internet but perhaps you could pony up the valium a little more frequently? I do live within 15 minutes of my in-laws here.

I guess the point of this epic entry is this. Yes. There is shit. Nothing in my closet makes me giddy right now, I have kind of a strained relationship with my in-laws, my husband thinks I spend too much money AND he won’t let me get Botox, I haven’t exactly stuck to this exercise thing like I’d been hoping, I can’t find a decent aesthetician to save my life, I have a new mole under my right boob and my hair has not been having the best month. And I assure you, I’m not trying to downplay or make light of the trauma in other peoples’ lives. It’s just made me see that mine? Really doesn’t suck.

How does your life not suck?

“Okay. We have dog food. We have cat food. We have cat litter. We have to get out of this store before my head expl…. Hey… look at that! Do you think that works?”

“Susannah. That is imitation Botox. Without a needle. At Wal-Mart. I can assure you… it does not work.”

“Well there is still this whole issue of a giant forehead wrinkle. And I was just thinking that…”

“No. Do not think it. Your skin would probably fall off or something. You are not getting that stuff. Don’t even walk over there. Hey! Come back!”

“Look… it says it is like Botox AND Juvederm. I really think that I should try this. Then I would be so young and pretty looking for you again. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Put it down.”

“Well then can I get some Botox?”

“I’m not having this conversation with now. And you cannot threaten me with potentially skin-melting Wal-Mart battery acid face cream just to trick me into agreeing to you having deadly poison injected in your NON-WRINKLY forehead. I know what you’re trying to do. I’m hip to your game homeslice.”

“Oh. Well then can I have some cake?”

“Sure.”

“Can I tell the internet about this?”

“Can I stop you?”

Repeated Google searches all failed miserably to tell me what was actually in that little pink box thus making me unable to provide a link. But apparently there is a lap in Madison working on a cheaper form of Botox that should be on the market in less than 2 years. That’s probably scary though…

There is something to be said for aging gracefully. Many things even. One of those things would perhaps be that… I’m not participating in the “graceful” part of aging. I’m horrified by the ever deepening wrinkle that has taken up permanent residence on my forehead but maybe more perplexed by the random acne that still insists on showing up on my chin. I think it’s safe to assure you that even if I were to look absolutely adorable in something off the pages of the Abercrombie (does that show my age? Do they still exist? What ARE the kids wearing these days?) catalog you’d be more likely to find me in Ann Taylor or J. Jill. But I won’t lie… I do love a good flirty sundress and as long as the girls stay north of my belly button I fully intend to flaunt the cleavage. On a Hollywood scale I’d say I’m somewhere better than Dina Lohan but definitely worse than Jamie Lee Curtis and not even on the same planet as Susan Sarandon. All of whom could be my mother which makes that a pointless comparison.

So let’s try again, shall we? And this time I’ll translate it into my own language…

I’m aging more gracefully than Brandon Walsh. Because oh my sweet, dreamy, self-righteous and pain in the ass Brandon Walsh, I used to gaze upon your expressive pout and gravity defying hair and think that if Cher Horowitz was, indeed, saving herself for Luke Perry thereby rendering Dylan McKay unavailable to me, that you would do quite nicely in the pinch. As long as I didn’t have to meet your sister…

I would like to go on the record and retract that statement…

I’m kind of not so much wanting to cuddle with you over campus politics and a megaburger as I just want to send you somewhere for a shower and a good shave. You’ve become a bizarre hybrid of Paul Rudd, Jason Bateman and Russell Crowe on their very worst days. Three boys who I generally find endearingly adorable even in their slight scruffiness. But Brandon. Sweetie. You are bordering on dangerously skeevy. Not so much “former teen idol” as you are “the future of creepy middle aged men”. I’m less inclined to show my as-yet unborn daughter the magic of 90210 so much as I want to make sure you aren’t her 11th grade english teacher.

It would also seem that your daughter and I are harboring the same fear of your wife’s cheekbones. Or maybe her chin. I’m unsure which one it is. Those things are unnatural. And yet I cannot look away.

Photos from US Magazine

Oh MTV. We need to have words. We need to really sit down and have a little chat. Because you can’t just spring shit on me like this. You see… I’m getting a little older. I don’t sit in front of you in a cannabis haze anymore. I no longer know every moment of Spring Break Live and the MTV Summer Beach House. And I haven’t watched “The Real World” since Las Vegas. I know, you think this means I no longer love you. But you would be wrong. Just look at all the hours I have devoted to “The Hills” and even “Laguna Beach.” It has to still matter to you.

But Legally Blonde? The reality show? You spring this on me without a chance for me to grab my character pumps and leg warmers (they wore them! I saw it!!) and dance along? My heart is broken. You, more than anyone MTV, you KNOW about my secret hidden and embarrassing love for all things singing and dancing related. You KNEW that every time Jody Sawyer pops up in the physically impossible hair, makeup AND wardrobe change on “Center Stage” my heart skips a beat and I, too, want to DANCE! You were fully aware of my love for “Save the Last Dance.” I won’t lie… I watched the second one with the chick from Coyote Ugly. Oh hell. Even “Drumline” got me with its passionate synchronized percussion. I WATCHED “SHOWGIRLS” BECAUSE THERE WAS DANCING! There. Are you HAPPY NOW? I have shared my shame with the internet.

And you KNEW about my secret dream to be on Broadway. No. For the record. I CANNOT sing. I’ve tried many times. Even fancied myself a little theatre kid with the singing and dancing and jazz hands for several years. (My sheer inability to ever make it onto the front row of the drama club productions in middle school where they DANCED! With BOYS! And wore the COLORED SKIRTS! Should have been a clue. I ignored it though.) Of course I was thrilled to find that in high school, they separated out the drama people from the musical people. This worked well for me. What with my lack of singing ability and elastic face. And sobriety.

But still the dream is back there in my skull. Oh sure. Now I’m old and fat and have no place on Broadway. (Again glossing over the inability to carry a tune… please keep up). Still, I could have lived vicariously through all those little skanky girls with their too-wide eyes and overly glossed lips. I’M SO MUCH BETTER TOO! I can BEND AND SNAP MOTHERFUCKER! Fine, I may throw out my back in the process but I will make it down there.

Le sigh. Whatever. It comes on past my bedtime anyway. I’ll just watch it from behind a bowl of ice cream on Sunday afternoon.