Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

As evidenced by my waistline, I’m not really a picky eater. I’m fairly brave and I’ll try just about anything as long as it isn’t in possession of a head when it hits my plate. Except for olives. I don’t know, maybe they are my kryptonite. Mainly the black ones but I stay away from the green ones too… just to be safe.

And pears. I hate pears. Oh. And turnips and beets.

But there is one area where I have a very strong opinion and that is that things should not take on the flavors of things to which they are not at all related. I know… how ambiguous, right? Well up until this morning this rule applied to one main thing. A “food” item that I have seen in two forms and being in its mere vicinity has never failed to send cold chills up my spine.

That item is the buttered popcorn flavored candy. Jelly beans? Good. Buttered Popcorn? Good. Buttered popcorn flavored jelly beans? Sweet jesus, no. The same goes for those dum-dum lollipops of the same nature. I’ve got no use for you and your identity-crisis-having non-sweet candy.

Then this morning I met a new enemy. But this one was is disguise because on the surface it snuck past me. Even though it was clearly a something masquerading as a something else and thus fit well within the parameters of the aforementioned qualification (that made me feel all lawyerly… did I mention that last night I dreamt I was a microbiologist… that doesn’t relate other than just me being something that I’m not…). It was the “Cinnamon Roll” flavored yogurt. Yogurt is sweet, right? As are cinnamon rolls. I figured it was going to be something along the lines of vanilla yogurt with one of those yummy swirls of cinnamon-y goo.

I was wrong. The evil demons at Yoplait attempted to make a pastry flavored yogurt base and it went very, very badly. And there wasn’t a stitch of cinnamon goo to be had ANYWHERE. So back to the original rule. Unless you are cake batter flavored ice cream from Coldstone Creamery you need to just stick to what nature intended you to be.

Am I alone on this one? Does anyone else have a food kryptonite or a rule like this? Or have you come across anything that fits the bill? Just me? Okay then…

When I was about 17 years old, I watched a movie that profoundly affected the way I viewed life. It was one of those movies that haunts you and if you had known me at that age and you were to watch this movie along with a couple of others you would have basically said to yourself… “Wow. That explains SO MUCH.” This movie became one that my best friend and I would watch over and over in a pot-fueled haze and until last night, I don’t think I had ever tried to watch it sober.

The movie is “Kids” and the first time I saw it I was blown away because as much as I liked to think of myself as a tough cookie at 17 and 18, I was floored by these people and how candidly and roughly they discussed everything in their lives. I will never go so far as to say that I admired them because I most certainly did not. The movie is a very tragic cautionary tale and I have never known anyone to walk away from that movie and just brush it off.

So when Patrick and I joined Netflix a few months ago I spent an impressively unproductive afternoon at work one day building our queue and loading it with all the movies I had wanted to see while we were in Augusta but wasn’t able to because there wasn’t a theatre that showed independent films. In doing this, I came across Kids and thought… “Hey. I used to love that movie. I bet Patrick has never seen this… clickety click!!”

I tried to explain the movie as I remembered it to Patrick and he was… unsure. But yesterday evening as we sat down to dinner we popped it in and started to watch it.

Oh. My. God.

That is the most tragic movie. I hated all those kids. They were horrible people. And the movie was just… uncomfortable. Where I used to see it as a story about worldly kids in New York; mature beyond their years that have been left to their own devices; now I just looked at the screen and wanted to know where in the world their parents were and why those little bastards weren’t in school. But mostly it just made me sad.

And by the way? This was all in about the first 15 minutes of the movie because that was all I could stomach before turning to Patrick and being all “I no longer love this movie. I think I may be a grown-up now.”

So I’m vaguely and morbidly curious to watch the other movies that I remember watching during that period in my life from about 1994 until 1999 and see if I have the same reaction. The ones that I can think of off the top of my head are “The Doom Generation”, “Welcome to the Dollhouse”, “Freeway”, “Natural Born Killers”, “The Basketball Diaries” and “Slums of Beverly Hills.” With the exception of “Basketball Diaries” and “Slums of Beverly Hills” (both of which Patrick hates and I own and will also watch anytime they are on television) I haven’t seen any of these movies in the last 10 years.

Has this happened to anyone else?

There was a time when Patrick read this blog frequently. Much like there was a time when I posted here frequently.

(Remember those days? The good old days? Yeah, neither do I… moving on…)

And during those times I used this website somewhat… well… I’ll refrain from calling it passive-aggressively but you get the picture. If there was something he did that pissed me off and he was dense enough to not realize it at the time then he could rest assured that he would hear about it on the internet. Those times have passed. For a couple of reasons. Reason the first being that since he’s a much happier person these days I don’t feel the need to point out his assholery behind his back and will, instead, smack him in the face with it like a proper wife should. And reason the second? Well damn. I’m just busier and dreaming up ways to passively-aggressively call out your husband takes up time that I now need to do things like bathe and sleep and find a good ear-wax removal method.

So when I posted something about adoption a few days ago, being passive-aggressive (are you sick of that by now? Me too… let’s call it rainbow-unicorn, that’s so much happier) was the last thing on my mind. But oddly Patrick chose that day to read this website for the first time in like 6 months. Awesome.

But rather than being upset (and rightfully so) at my unintentional rainbow-unicorniness he just said that guess what… that whole kid thing had really been on his mind too. And while maybe he wasn’t quite ready to start the adoption process, maybe we could revisit the fertility issue?

I guess you could say that I was less than receptive at first. I think that infertility is such a different issue for men than it is for a woman. (Unless, of course, there is male infertility, which we don’t even KNOW if it is a factor with us and I’ll get to that in just a second). In general, the boy half of the equation in an observer when it comes to female infertility. They observe the medication and the hormonal outbursts and the heartbreak. They can sympathize but rarely do they actually GET IT. And when they don’t get it, they aren’t all that helpful. Or involved. I wasn’t ever even able to get Patrick involved enough the first go-round to have his own fertility tested.

(Again… NOT being rainbow-unicorn-y, this has ALL been discussed in the PaintingChef household)

But on the grounds that THIS foray into the world of hormones and drugs and pee sticks (oh my) will truly be a joint adventure, I have agreed. I have an appointment with a new RE with a great track record and several GLOWING recommendations from personal friends. Personal friends with BABIES for that matter. He has agreed to be present at appointments; to have his own fertility tested; to stick a needle in my ass if necessary; and to just BE INVOLVED.

So if by the end of the year we haven’t achieved an actual and viable pregnancy, we will start the adoption process. But until then I guess its back on the crazy train. Aren’t you excited?!?!

Dear Winston Archibald Churchill-

Look MAN. This shoe fetish you have? Lovely. It does prove that you were meant to be mine. And yes, mommy does have some great, dare I say YUMMY shoes… But here’s a thought…

Let them be yummy to your EYES. Because if I have to enter the house and see the carnage that I saw the other day again, well, my cold, black, dead heart just might not be able to take the pain. I don’t care what your father tells you, there is NO SUCH THING as TOO MANY BLACK SHOES. Those were perfect little black peep-toe pumps that made my heart sing. And they were ON SALE.

And you? Made them your dinner. So yes. I stomped and screamed and cried and scared a little bit of pee out of you.

BUT THEY WERE CHARLES DAVID AND THEY WERE ON SALE!!!

Maybe it is my fault. Maybe that shoebox smelled like bacon. Or like the butts you seem so fond of sniffing. I’m pretty sure I can’t send back the chewed carcass of a left shoe and ask that they replace it. I have a feeling that Bluefly would laugh their asses off at me. And yet I can’t bring myself to throw away that sad right shoe that sits so forlornly on my dresser. All alone. No mate. And right before Valentine’s Day, no less. It will never be worn. That was it’s only purpose in life.

WHY MUST YOU BREAK THE HEARTS OF INNOCENT SHOES? Do you not hear the soft, smooth, buttery leather crying out in agony?

Now I’m trying to be a little more diligent about not leaving my shoes in a big pile of beautiful next to my laundry hamper and instead am trying to remember to put them away and I’m even working hard to always keep the giant pile of GO FISH in my closet behind a closed door. I do this because I love, sweetie, I love you.

I just don’t like you very much right now. And don’t be surprised if the next shoe I leave lying around has a big plastic bag full of Icy-Hot hanging out in it. By god… you CAN be taught and the internet swears that shit will work…

Love,
Mom

And P.S… This isn’t working either…

Back fifty bajillion years ago, I used to talk about wanting a baby. Do you even remember that whole infertility thing? Was it a phase? No. It wasn’t. I assure you, I still carry those Punk-Ass Ovaries and Busted Uterus around with me on a daily basis. We’re tight like that.

But what happened? Did the lackluster lady-bits go the way of my book and my painting and that whole small-batch baking thing? Are they all just sitting around gathering dust and growing cobwebs in the corner of my “Things I Thought I Might Do and Also Blog About” room? (Well, no, I assure you that the full-size, nothing small about it half of an Oreo cheesecake in my fridge is growing no dust OR cobwebs. But we had COMPANY! For DINNER!)

Infertility is awful. You don’t forget the Clomid-fueled periods of rage. You don’t forget the negative pregnancy tests. And most of all, you don’t forget the miscarriages. The emotional theme park ride of a positive pregnancy test followed by the inevitable diagnosis of “non-viable pregnancy” is not a sting that ever loses its potency. And sometimes your heart just has to take a vacation.

And then? You totally convince yourself that huh… maybe you are RELIEVED. Maybe you didn’t really want that hassle of a KID any-damn-way. And you take some time and revel in your child-free status and maybe even try and fool yourself that it all worked out just the way you secretly planned. Oh sure, fine, you’ve gained seventy freaking pounds from the lethal combination of questionably-legal Clomid bought from Thailand and the cocktail of self-medication fondly known as brownies and red wine. Pshaw… whatever.

But dude? You are TOTALLY fooling yourself. Maybe you were protecting you wee delicate flower little feelings. Maybe you needed a “break”. Whatever. But guess what? You still want a baby. And suddenly you find yourself googling “adoption” a little more often and wondering if maybe that’s the way to go. Until you run it by your husband and he is just… not as receptive and jazzed about the idea as you expected. And then you just get pissed off and stew silently about it for a few days weeks because what does HE know? His part of this whole mess is the easy part. HE isn’t the one who is broken. HE isn’t the big fat failure at pregnancy. HE doesn’t even like to talk about it.

The wanting is different this time around. It is less specific. It isn’t about being pregnant and giving birth. It isn’t about a genetic combination of the two of us. It’s about being a mother. I think I need to be a mother. I think it’s really time. I’ve wasted enough time. Selfish has left the building…