Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Lately life has been kicking my ass. And I HATE that. Not that, by any means, I am a swirling dervish of energy moving Tasmanian Devil style from one point to the next. It’s no secret that my couch is one of my favorite places to be. But I think that the emotional exertion of life the past week or so has just knocked me flat.

It probably started with last weekend and all the build up to the mother’s day dinner. And the power did come back on. Even before people got here. That was the least of it. Just stressing about my family and his family all in one place and WHO is going to say something inappropriate first? How drunk is my uncle going to get? Which embarrassing story is my mother going to lead off with? And it’s all stress that I put solely on myself because everyone behaved beautifully; they always do.

But I think that because I was so consumed with making this perfect evening for mother’s day, I didn’t have a chance to prepare my head and my house for the week ahead. I didn’t have a mental calendar of what was going on in the coming week. I didn’t have dinners planned or a grocery list made. I hadn’t cleaned out the refrigerator or done laundry. (You know… things I used to do on Mondays when I had no responsibility and a job that a half trained chimp or maybe even George Bush could probably figure out.)

The oddest thing was that despite my ill-preparedness, Monday had the balls to show up anyway. And then Tuesday. And instead of catching up, each day has me feeling further and further behind. Like I’m in slow-motion quicksand. Even this evening as I’m sitting here in a perfectly quiet house KNOWING that I should be catching up on laundry or doing… SOMETHING (even just throwing away the vase of peonies sitting in front of me as it is wafting a particularly impressive funk in my general direction but I GREW THEM. They are from my yard and made me feel very garden-y. Not at all like the person who thought she had managed to kill a beautiful peace lily until three different people looked at it and told her/me it was obviously defective and she/I should return it immediately.)

Wait… what was I talking about?

See? It’s that. I know there are people who are trying to keep up with kids and jobs and husbands and parents and dogs and soccer games and clarinet lessons and homework and things that I can’t even think of. But this is my life. And for whatever reason, it’s wearing me slap out. Just a general off-kilter-ness that only dares to explain itself in dreams. Every night something else. A forgotten class. A crumbling marriage. Travel plans gone terribly wrong. I can’t explain it but I am starting to fear that something is just out on the horizon. Just hanging out waiting to swoop in for the kill. I guess I’d better get some fucking rest so I can spike it back out of my universe whenever it does show up.

Oh hell. This doesn’t even make any sense. Maybe I just need a haircut and some snappy blonde highlights.

Given this recent relocation adventure (stay with me… believe it or not this is NOT about moving!) Patrick and I (read: Susannah in one of her lesser intelligent moments which she then subsequently blamed on Patrick and then started writing in the third person? What the hell?) decided that since we were all now in the same town, we would have our parents and our grandmothers over for dinner on Mother’s Day.

Lovely, right? The sort of thing that good children do.

And believe me, this was one well planned event. I knew an entire week ago EXACTLY what I was serving. I had planned flowers, wine, music and even knew where everyone should sit. I was on the fucking ball. Coffee-rubbed beef tenderloin on the grill (oh Bobby Flay… you grilling sexy minx), spinach casserole that I am FAMOUS for, rosemary potatoes, delicious salad with apples, feta and homemade honey vinaigrette and my recently perfected cheesecake for dessert (hey… I don’t have a fat ass for nothing my friends… I sacrifice my physical appearance to feed you perfectly creamy cheesecake.)

People were coming over at 6 and I was aiming for dinner at 6:30. Earlier than I would like but Patrick’s grandmother gets VERY tired and I am incapable of getting my shit together to serve lunch. Not to mention that the in-laws give me pretty dirty looks when I break out all that wine at noon. Party poopers.

I was doing good, sticking to my loose and flexible schedule/timeframe that allowed me to go out Sunday morning and get the flowers to make bouquets for everyone. (And by the way? All you slackers at the store picking through those ugly last few bouquets of overpriced roses? You suck. Take a few minutes, pick out some different flowers from over here where I’m standing all by my lonesome, put them together in a bouquet and you won’t give your mother flowers that scream of “I woke up with a hangover or possibly still drunk and then I remembered it was Mother’s Day and here… look… half dead roses. Love you mom.”). I have one more fast, unscheduled (but totally manageable) mad dash out the CVS when I realize that the movers mutilated my entire stock of adorable wrapping paper and unless my mother and Patrick’s mother are suddenly about that have a baby boy or want to get into the Christmas spirit, I should run to the store.

And then everything. Fell. Apart.

Because guess what you kind of need to get everything ready for dinner for 9 people?

Electricity my friends. ELECTRICITY.

I just took a look into my fridge. I’m not certain because it was a little hard to see past the wine, champagne, heavy whipping cream, leftover fajitas, assorted imported cheese and various random sticks of butter but there are probably some vegetables in there somewhere.

Obviously the fridge needed some help. Fast. This had to be dealt with in a drastic and immediate way. There needed to be less crap in there.

So… I ate a piece of the cheesecake.

I have a love-hate relationship with exercise and any sort of physical exertion in general. By this I mean that I absolutely LOVE to hate it. I hate to sweat. I hate being out of breath. I don’t like how my feet look in tennis shoes and I don’t get that “high” from a good long run on a beautiful day. I love a beautiful day but what I love most about it is lying outside reading a book and washing down a cupcake with a cold frosty fruity boozy drink while tanning my legs into suitcase leather.

I assure you that this comes as a surprise to nobody.

But last week, Patrick and I got life insurance quotes…

And people? They were NOT PRETTY.

Apparently our sloth-like and slovenly lifestyle has shown the first signs of catching up with us. Which would explain why Sunday afternoon found us committing to a substantial withdrawal from our bank account every month for the next three years in the form of a gym membership. Let’s get one thing straight… I ain’t gonna like it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my waistline is hiding under here somewhere and I suppose if I have nothing better to do then I should maybe think about finding it.

My first personal training session is today. I have decided on the total honesty approach in that I will assure this trainer from the start that I’m not going to like her. I don’t want to be there and I will NOT be enjoying this. I am GIVING UP 90210 FOR THIS TORTURE. But in spite of that, I am making a commitment to her and more importantly a commitment to myself. Devoid of personal empowerment mantras and “go team Susannah” cheers because I’m trying to keep down my breakfast here kids. I’m going to do this. It’s time.

But if that bitch lays one paw on my sweet tooth… I’ll sit on her.

Dear self…

Do you feel that uncomfortable sensation about the waist-ish area? Those are your pants. And they are telling you that last week’s “All Peanut Butter Truffles, All The Time” diet was ill-advised. Eat an apple and take a walk you dumb whore.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Peanut Butter Truffles…

I miss you already but you are evil. Please don’t be on sale at Target tomorrow.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Pants…

Fuck you.

Kisses,
P’Chef.

Dear Pretty Flowy Summer Dresses…

Hello gorgeous. Let’s make out.

Kisses,
P’Chef.