Archive for November, 2011

Published by PaintingChef on 29 Nov 2011

I simply refuse to believe that you are all that nice. Speak up NOW DAMMIT.

Just a reminder! Tell me how you were an asshole to someone and you could win the product of Patrick being an asshole to me! Aren’t you curious? Scroll down… look down there… read about it. Here’s what’s up for grabs!

1. Mean-spirited laser parking assistant.
2. Christmas note cards printed with an original painting by yours truly
3. Candied jalapenos from my garden
4. $25 Amazon Gift Card

All in one happy bucket!** But you have to tell me the meanest trick that you ever either played on someone or that was played on you.

** In all honesty, there isn’t actually a happy bucket. It will probably show up in a re-purposed Amazon or RueLaLa box because that’s what I have the most of laying around. Sorry. Is that a dealbreaker? I hope it isn’t.

Published by PaintingChef on 21 Nov 2011

In which I try and bribe you to not think I’m the biggest asshole in the world.

I thought about killing my husband this morning. What? It’s Monday. That’s what we do on Mondays, right? Once you get married that’s what “A Case of the Mondays” means, right? Thanks Office Space.

See… here’s the thing. I’m lazy. If we can just stipulate that fact, things will move right along, okay? So finally, after almost 10 years of marriage, I have a garage parking space. I feel like that’s something that should be on the game of “Life”. The square says something like “Your spouse finally rates you above the boat and the classic car and you earn a garage parking space of your very own. You win $200, dry shoes in the rain and a brand new fight called ‘Why do you park like an asshole in the garage’… CONGRATULATIONS!!”

(Side note… last year for Christmas, my husband got me a laser assisted parking thing for my stocking. Three guesses if you can figure out where THAT fine gift ended up…)

But all that nonsense aside, one thing I have found absolutely GLORIOUS about parking in the garage is the 5 minutes I no longer have to spend in a mad dash running around the house looking for my damn keys. I leave them in my car, in the ignition with the windows rolled down in the garage. And I love it because I know where those bitches are like 99.9% of the time. Oh sure, it means that if I DIDN’T drive, I’m consistently locked out of my own house and I never have that damn Kroger card and entering my phone number only sometimes works but dammit… I KNOW WHERE MY KEYS ARE.

I am the girl who loses her phone twelve times a day but always knows where her keys are. Hi. Nice to meet you.

So yesterday Patrick and I were running some errands and he was driving because usually when we go somewhere together he drives so I can mainline tequila. It makes our lives better, you should try it! Anyway he, for whatever reason, starts giving me shit because I don’t have my keys and we are stopping by the office so I can feed my fish (I have fish! Have I told you about the fish!?!?) and I have to wait for him to unlock the door even though his hands are full (of… wood? I forget) and he’s like “Oh no, don’t worry, I’ll get this” while I’m standing there noticing that my shoes were really cute. And I was all DUDE. What? No keys. And he acts flabbergasted that I have no keys. As if this is brand new information and this very situation has never once ever happened before in the history of Susannah possessing keys. (Other things that have happened more than once? Susannah throwing her entire keychain away at the mall. I win at keys.)

Fast forward to this morning when I am running late as I am on all mornings but Mondays in particular but I have gathered my shit and even made a sandwich for lunch and I can’t even begin to tell you what a rare occurrence this one is and I am out the door and I sit in my car and THERE ARE NO KEYS.

NO KEYS.

Obviously, Patrick has taken them. He has decided to prove a point and he has taken my keys like an assholey asshole and for this he will pay dearly. I look in every drawer in his dresser. I even look the places I used to look for keys when they were a traveling enigma. Normal places. The bathroom. The pantry. The washing machine. Fridge.

NO KEYS.

I spent half an hour looking for my keys this morning and the entire time my poor animals were being schooled in vocabulary that would normally make even ME blush. Supposedly there is a spare key? Like a valet thing? That I lost? Whatever. No keys.

Back to the car that I am now proceeding to tear apart because now I’m thinking maybe he just pulled them out of the ignition and tossed them in a seat or the floor or something where I would OBVIOUSLY see them except that I am morning-stupid. (It’s like being day-drunk but nowhere near as entertaining.) I finally found them under the front seat and I am now yelling so loudly at my damn husband that I am CERTAIN he can already hear me. This is not cute. This is not funny. This is not clever. Clever was the time I reprogrammed his phone to play the Hallelujah chorus at top volume and the caller ID to read GOD when I called it and then called him while I knew he was in a meeting. THAT? Was cute and clever.

He swears he didn’t do it. I don’t think I believe him.

Hey! Let’s turn this into something good and not something I’m still kind of fuming over, what do you say? What the meanest little trick to prove a point that you either played on someone or had played on you? Whoever has the best story wins that damn parking laser and I’ll throw something good in there too. Some Christmas cards with a painting on them and maybe some candied jalapenos from my garden. Oh fine. And a $25 Amazon gift card. Let’s recap…

1. Mean-spirited laser parking assistant.
2. Christmas note cards printed with an original painting by yours truly
3. Candied jalapenos from my garden
4. $25 Amazon Gift Card

That’s not so bad, really, is it? Tell your friends! I’ll choose a winner on December 5th which is two whole weeks so get to thinking about what an asshole you are.

Published by PaintingChef on 08 Nov 2011

In which I totally shatter everything you thought you knew about me… but only if you don’t know me at all.

So… little know fact about me? I have what could, in some circles, be LOOSELY defined as a shopping problem. I know, I know. I’ll pause a second here for you to collect yourselves. You’re so disappointed. This is SHOCKING, really, isn’t it? I’ve shattered your illusions. It’s all over.

(Patrick. Hi honey. If you are reading this just… stop now. Please. I beg you. I love you and I want to stay married. I adore lounging on the couch with you and walking the puppies on gorgeous evenings and that one thing you do that makes me squee a little… yeah, I’d like to continue that. So please, for the love of all that is good and covered in chocolate and bacon… CLOSE THIS PAGE NOW.)

The truth is this. I receive no less than 30 shopping-related emails every day. My UPS guy gives me a Christmas present and I know my debit card number by heart because I’ve typed it in so many times. My closet is full of broken down boxes and I buy hangers for my closet the way some people buy toilet paper. My closet is stuffed to the gills and there is a chance that shoes are going to take over my bedroom. It is, without a doubt, a Problem.

But it’s less of a problem than it used to be. You see, I’m doing better. Which is quite odd because you would think that with the recent shrinking of my ass and hips, I’d be doing worse. Okay, maybe technically I am. But there is a difference. Now I’m shopping out of necessity. Um… I should back up before I dig myself fully into this ridiculous hole, right?

When I was at my heaviest, I figured there was one of two approaches I could take to dressing. I could shroud myself in big black sacks and hope that nobody noticed me or I could wear the brightest, most colorful and vibrant clothes I could find. Hot pink. Orange. Bright greens and blues and sky-high heels. I figured that if I wasn’t trying to look like I wanted to disappear then people would think that I was more confident than I really was. (And dresses. ALWAYS dresses. Which really hasn’t changed, I LOVE a dress. But I have recently allowed jeans back into my life and we are taking things slowly but so far, so good.)

The funny thing about this was that I’d never been that person before. I was pretty much always in mostly black with one or two little pops of color. Not to hide or blend in or anything, that was just what I wore, how I was most comfortable. If I liked it, I was buying it in black first. Not red or hot pink or bright blue.

But now that I’m slowly becoming more comfortable in my own body again (and don’t get me wrong, there is still a LONG way to go but I think that when I know that things are moving in the right direction, I’m more confident in where I am at this moment.) Does that make sense? And would you like me to stop using parentheses? Haha… too bad! But as I’ve bought more things for my smaller self, I’ve noticed I’m drifting back towards blacks and greys and darker colors. This is kind of a problem because one thing about all those bright colors? They hid the animal fur that was glaring evidence of my total lack of housekeeping interest skill.

(By the way. This isn’t at ALL where I was going when I sat down to write this. I was planning on asking you to help me figure out if it seems weird that I’m thinking about giving some people homemade Christmas presents when I love to shop so much.)

So what happened was a few weeks ago things started to get cold. And I realized that all my cold weather clothes made me look like a psychedelic fat Olsen twin. It wasn’t a good look. This realization made me thing about trying something I’ve never done before… being HONEST about what I was going to do. “Patrick? I have no clothes. I’m going to shop. I have a few good discount codes but it isn’t going to be pretty. I just thought you should know.”

And you know what he said? Neither do I. Are you CRAZY?

I’ve recently decided to teach myself to make French macarons. They are gorgeous and adorable and twee and so very delicious. They can be made in a frillion different flavors and I love them. But something weird about the recipe is that it tells you to AGE your egg whites. And I think that’s kind of the same approach I take to new clothes. I age them. They sit in my closet for a week or so before I wear them.

“Is that new?”
“Oh no. I’ve had this for awhile, I just forgot about it.”

Next up? New hair. I need new hair. Any suggestions?