Archive for June, 2009

Published by PaintingChef on 26 Jun 2009

She probably didn’t know that only three of my toenails still have polish on them either…

I didn’t want to get up this morning. Not that that made this morning any different than every other morning where light and sound have the cojones to intrude upon my personal space before 10:00… but nevertheless… I didn’t want to get up. So I’m sure you can imagine my delight to remember, at 7:30 (the time I am technically supposed to be at work) while I was laying in bed bitching about the general condition of it being morning to my VERY unsympathetic husband, that I had a dentist appointment this morning at 9 thus allowing me ample time to roll around in bed, cuddle puppies and moan about having to get up in the very near future.

(The dentist is a non-issue. I love the feeling of recently polished teeth and I am 31 years old with never a single cavity so I do not dread the dentist. The sentiment would have been different had it been, perhaps, a morning date with the gynecologist.)

Regardless of the extra time allowed to me, I still lazed around in bed for too long and had to jump up in a hurry to get ready and out the door with no makeup (as usual). I scurried out the door feeling like about a 3 on a scale of 1-10. (Mascara and lipstick made it a solid 3.5.)

After the dentist I did a little running around, nothing of great importance, but on the way back to work I ducked into the grocery store because I also had nothing for lunch today. As I was standing at the check-out looking down at my black cotton swing dress and wondering if any of the menagerie of animals at my house could possibly have any fur left given the considerable amount stuck to my clothing, my entire morning changed.

A woman I’d never seen before in my life came up to me and told me I was beautiful and carried myself with sexy confidence.

“But wait!” I wanted to yell. “Do you not see the thousand things wrong with me? My hair is unwashed, my dress is slightly faded (despite my best efforts with Woolite Dark) and covered in animal fur. I haven’t reapplied my lipstick since being at the dentist (actually, I hadn’t even looked to make sure it wasn’t currently hanging out on my left cheek or my right eyelid), I haven’t shaved my legs since Sunday and my shoes are scuffed! Not to mention I could easily stand to lose a good 50 pounds and my nail polish is chipped! I’m tired, I’m waiting to see if I’m pregnant and I have a sneaking suspicion that my underwear is on inside out. How can you not see what a complete and utter train wreck I am?”

Instead, somehow I managed to blush and stammer “thank you” to this gorgeous woman who looked like she just stepped off the pages of a magazine. She was dressed in casual jewel tones that accented her flawless black skin, her accessories was magnificent and she was rocking a hat that I could only wear in my wildest dreams.

As she flashed me a killer smile and went about her shopping, I realized that this woman has got it all figured out. This woman knows what life is about. She has a mission and she is making this world a better place one person at a time, whether she knows it or not.

Far too often, be it a gossip magazine, a fashion magazine or whatever random entertainment show happens to be on, we focus on flaws and tear each other down. We find the little things wrongs with each person and compare ourselves saying “Well at least I don’t have her hips, or those thighs. At least I’m not blind enough to wear those shoes with that dress.” We think it makes us feel better by comparison. And I’m just as guilty, if not more, than the next girl. I love a good snarky comment and chances are, that’s not going to disappear any time soon.

But there is no amount of criticism and judgment that I could make to another person that could ever make me feel as good as the five seconds that a stranger took out of her day to tell me something nice. She didn’t see all the flaws that I can’t see around when I look in the mirror. She doesn’t have the memory of a pair of size 4 wardrobe floating around in the back of her mind.

And so in appreciation of her, I challenge everyone to pay a compliment to a stranger today. Or every day if you want. Speak up. It may not seem like much but I promise you that you will change someone’s day. Maybe even your own…

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Jun 2009

The Next Step.

Hi. So. It’s been awhile since we talked about “The Plan” and how that’s coming along, no?

Let’s state the obvious first… so far? Not pregnant. The past two cycles have ticked by with me making little check marks on each day of the calendar as I sit down on the edge of my bed every night and pop about 47 pills like a good little patient. And twice now, Patrick has had the distinct pleasure of giving me a shot in the ass that will invariably make me feel like crap for the next 48 hours. You know… the EXACT 48 hours in which it would be to my benefit to NOT feel like death warmed over.

So that’s awesome.

But with the non-success (although many good things happened that had not ever happened before I am still fetus-less hence the label of NON-SUCCESS or FAIL) of the past two cycles under my belt Dr. Fabulous decided that we should add a little more help. Which is all fine and good and I’m all for a little more help because I’m very serious about this whole baby thing. Until I decipher the chart she is giving me and realize that it will require a grand total of nine injections per cycle. Nine. As in eight more than I’ve been doing.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I asked about side effects.


This is not a good sign my friends.

So. While technically we are in “wait and see” mode (which is awesome because I officially don’t have to feel guilty about not pitching in on litter box duty even though I haven’t pitched in since 2004) I have already sold my left kidney to pay for two months of Repronex injections. That apparently are going to make me so bat-shit crazy insane (not to mention how sore my ass fat is going to be what with being poked with a needle TWICE a day) that Patrick may very well seek out Crazy Psycho Clomid Wife (ahhh… remember her?) just for a little down time and “normalcy”.

I wonder if I’ll need to sit on one of those donut cushions…?

Published by PaintingChef on 12 Jun 2009

Christmas in June!!

Dear Santa,

As you know, I’ve never been one for practical gifts. Yes, I did say (famously at least in my family) that any sort of appliance ever given as a gift was grounds for immediate divorce and even at the tender age of 12, I tried to warn my father that hiding those diamond earrings he got mom for her birthday in an electric can opener wasn’t his most inspired plan.

So it should come as a great surprise that I’m asking you for something so practical and useful this year. However, just between you and me, I think it’s attention-getting properties and absolute bizarreness fully balance that out and I will argue ANYONE (I’m looking at YOU, Patrick) who tries to tell me that I am, in fact, asking for something not 100% frivolous.

Allergy season is rough. A girl needs to be constantly vigilant that repeated nose-blowing hasn’t left her with a bit of Kleenex, or even worse, a hanger around the rim. There is nothing worse. In addition to that, there is the social minefield of something stuck in your teeth. Oh sure, if you flat out ASK someone, they’ll tell you but it’s still one of those gray areas, you know? I mean… what’s your policy with the elves? Do they tell you if you have some spinach or a pork chop hiding in that beard?

Not to mention the whole chin-hair PCOS debacle. Yes, I currently have no less than 15 pairs of strategically placed tweezers and a regular waxing appointment to deal with that problem but there are errant hairs! They plague my existence and mock my otherwise smooth chin!

In looking at all of these problems, it suddenly became crystal clear to me that I was in dire need of a little help. (Of the non-psychiatric variety thank you very much.) So if you could find it in your heart to bring me an extra eyeball for my ring finger much like the one here

I sure would appreciate it. I feel like that little lady (who I would fondly call Norma) would have my back. There would be no awkwardness about spinach or pepper or boogers or hairs. Norma and I, we would have an understanding… one that clearly stated “YOU ALWAYS TELL.”

So thanks Santa. Norma is just what I need. But remember, if anyone asks… she also SPARKLES!!

Love and kittens,

** Eye Ring found at **

Published by PaintingChef on 05 Jun 2009

I’ll take a diet coke please. You can set it right here by my Colt .45.

This is not a political blog. This is not a local government or current events blog other than the current state of my uterus, shoe collection and 90210. I don’t really find it necessary to bang you over the head with my personal beliefs because I think they are evident through the way I live my life.


There is a new law in Tennessee that is literally keeping me up at night with amazement and has baffled me so greatly that I am going to quote the former Simian Leader of the Free World Mr. Bush and say this recent piece of legislation has hit me with Shock and Awe.

(This is where I pause for a quick reference Google to make certain that I’m getting the details of this exactly right…and so you can look up Simian and learn that all I meant was homeboy looks like a monkey)

As of July 14th of this year, hand gun permit holders will be able to take their weapons into establishments selling alcoholic beverages.*

(blink… blink…)

To his credit and amidst great controversy, Tennessee Governor Phil Bredesen vetoed this law, calling it an “invitation to disaster” before the Senate overrode his veto.*

Now that the facts are out of the way… can we talk about this? Because I’ve been in my fair share of bars. And you know that phrase “bar fight?” It comes from somewhere. Let’s think about all the situations that arise in a bar that are bad enough without introducing a FIREARM into the mix.

Imagine a bartender who has been told to cut someone off who has CLEARLY had way too much to drink. Now in the past, restaurants and bartenders have been held liable to a degree for the condition in which someone leaves their establishments. But riddle me this? If you are a bartender working for minimum wage plus tips and your manager tells you to cut someone off, a situation that is ALREADY delicate at best, are you going to be willing to piss off that drunk person (and their obviously impaired judgment) at the risk of a hole in your fucking head? Because guess what… he may have a gun now!

Picture the average drunken fraternity boy bar fight. Nobody knows why it started. Maybe it was a girl. Maybe it was some imagined show of disrespect. Who knows or cares, these two guys are too hammered to land a punch any damn way. Hey here’s a thought! For fun and games, let’s add the handgun that daddy bought you for Christmas! It’s okay! You aren’t breaking any rules!

Someone hit on your girlfriend while you were in the bathroom?

Steak overcooked?

Breadbasket take too long?

Server spill a drink on you?

I am truly baffled. What purpose could that firearm possibly serve you in a bar or a restaurant? And I’m not an idiot… I hear the talk about “self-defense” and “protecting my family in the event someone busts in and starts shooting” and those are very real concerns in this day and age. Those things happen. Just like plane crashes, car accidents and house fires. Do you still take airplanes? Do you drive a car? Do you live in a house?

Are you THAT afraid of being somewhere when someone robs it or flips out and goes postal? Because that’s part of life man. As soon as you step foot into that establishment with a gun on your person (and you aren’t a member of law enforcement) you’ve just become part of the problem. If you are that scared, don’t bring a gun with you when you go out for a burger, for the love of god, just order take-out!

* “Senate overrides veto; guns allowed in bars” By Tom Humphrey published online at on June 5, 2009