1. Angry Chef stops by tonight (*surprise!) to scream at me about being a whore…because I wouldn’t tell him where I got the twenty dollars from in my pocket book…that he found out about a week ago.
2. Then he tells me he is going to win me back one day…and that he’ll try “starting tomorrow”, but for now he is going to keep-on keeping on in AngryLand and get mad at me for not telling him straight out that I had saved the $20.
3. Then he tries to hand me a kleenex when he finally won and I couldn’t hold back the tears of exhaustion when he doesn’t leave after the third time I asked him to. Oh geez Angry Chef Boy, wTf did I ever do without you in my life?
And to think, all this because I spent all of that $20 sans banana money on lunch today (and we all know you can’t buy a martini on banana money, organic bananas, maybe but that is another story) and couldn’t go out to Cobalts to meet some very nice new people. Alcohol comes out over food finally for once. (Side note: I couldn’t pack my lunch this morning because when Angry Chef Boy arrived to “babysit” as he called it, he decided to insist on “talking” which is what he called what normal ppl call “being angry.”)
But on a side note, Angry Chef Boy is taking a 3 month voyage around the world on a boat as an Angry Boat Chef Boy so all this will no longer be an issue. I will be using both my lunch money AND the banana money AND the money I make from pawning a few body parts off to pay for a babysitter. A spleen is a small price to pay. Bon Voyage Angry Chef Boy, Bon Voyage!
o.0
Tomorrow:
Shopping for a dead bolt.
*UPDATE: Just went to brush my teeth and go to bed. He stole the toothpaste on his way out. Really?
Today was a celebration! We celebrated Solaris’ 4 years of existence ana Angry Chef Boy’s 30 days of sobriety. I’m celebrating both with a nice Napa Cab. It’s from a winery called Bohemian Highway–the last bottle misplaced amongst the Vermouth’s and covered in fingerprints. I figured she needed a home. Surprisingly, I really like it. And I think it ended up being under $10. Double swoon.
So I survived. 1460 days of being a mom (love) and 2195 days of Angry Chef antics (not so much). I’m celebrating a new job, cheers. A new lola, cheers and a new found sense of freedom. More importantly, I’ve survived 30 days of hurt and I’ve come out on the other side stronger. Not in the “I can walk through fire” mentality I had while “surviving” college, but in a softer, “I’ve learned to be human” sense. I’ve learned to forgive.
Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t forgotten, I’ve just forgiven. And not just him. One moment of clarity, somewhere between here and Melbourne on 95…it came to me. An empathetic understanding of how things can spiral out for a person and how it can so easily, and un-willingly bring down those closest to them. So I forgave him, and I forgave someone else who use to be close to me from years ago, and at the same time I forgave myself (we all need a little reminder that it’s ok to be human, and faliable). And I feel a hundred times better.
Don’t get me wrong, there is forgiveness and there is co-dependency. My energy needs to be exerted on myself, to cultivate whatever it is that I NEED in life. If a personal relationship can not help in that endeavor but instead drains your energy and focus because you are investing in keeping the relationship afloat, it’s kind of a pointless waste. So you can forgive but you don’t have to rectify.
I have 90 days.
My new job is a 90 day contract, after which I can choose to stay or leave and they can choose to keep me or leave me. 90 days is an excellent trial run. So I thought, why not give a few more things in my life a 90 trail run. 90 days without television. 90 days vegetarian diet (I was contemplating 90 days raw but my body without protein would probably land me in the hospital). 90 days writing everyday. 90 days of art.
If you had 90 days to alter your life in a way you’ve always wanted to try, what would you do?
My head has been spinning the last month. I’ve been a whirl wind of change and unfocused energy. No logic, no structure, no strategy–just movement. I suppose I was hoping progression would bring about the solutions I was looking for: cover more ground and your bound to turn up something. The solutions have manifested and now I am working on focusing the energy: on shopping–for the new loft.
Yes, they renovated the old Royal Palm Hotel in downtown into awesome lofts. And we’ve gotten the awesomest of the awesome! You know the one: all the windows, the 12 foot ceilings and the great kitchen all decked out in urban cool. And you know how much I heart urban cool. The only problem is, all of my stuff is NOT urban cool and I’ve grown favorable to the vintage bones and charm of a lot of the cracker homes in the area. So I am frantically searching the blogs for inspiration, a way to blend the two into something harmonious. I happened across a new fav:
First problem: Bed.
Yeah, I broke it. I love Ikea, but seriously, MDF doesn’t handle much…well, force. (wicked grin). Before we left the townhouse, we were using a stack of books to hold up a split side rail. So I am brainstorming how to use pallets to make a giant platform bed for the queen mattress. Of course I found a really great vintage bed in Dania Beach, but I really can’t justify the $900 price tag. That and the dimensions are weird: it’s about 3″ too short for a queen and too big for a double.
So I am trying to figure out a fun way to make this, only bigger.
Since I was working on a site ALL weekend, I’ve taken yesterday and today off-ish (minus a meeting this evening) to recharge, pack and purge (stuff that is). I may just suck it up and get this bad boy ($400 is more my style)
Today I had my first therapy session: instead of Freud, however, it involved the Fox Trot and the Rumba. D and I have decided to forgo the traditional routes of “and how does that make you feel” by dealing with our issues in a more…direct way. And so, with much intrepidation and not nearly enough alcohol, I walked nervously into the dance studio.
Issue 2: Listen to Your Body.
I’ve always been fine with the cerebral of performing arts: writing and design and even memorizing the lines and spewing them in front of fans waiting on the edge of their seat…not a problem. But the few areas that require a person to expose themselves and to allow themselves to be vulnerable to the audience have always been the most mystifying to me. These, of course are always the parts and pieces that make a performance so intriguing–and just plain good. Hence I suck as an actress, or as a performing artist in general. Want me to parade around naked in front of an audience? No problem. Want me to lift my arm to express exasperation? Now we have a problem.
All it takes is some work, focus on where your body is, what it is doing…then stash it away in muscle memory and let your body do with it as it needs while you feel the energy of the moment. Not for me. Asking an Anorexic to listen to her body is like asking a paraplegic to wiggle their toes: it’s kind of mean. But it’s something that needs addressed.
I’ve been looking at scooters for a while. I knew I loved the little Italian doll when I first laid eyes on her. 30 minutes later the papers were signed and she was mine. She is spending her last night in the shop, getting her engine primed and ready for the long trip home. Tonight I am helmet hunting,
Miss V and I went to lunch with the mayor…Thursday? Friday? I can’t remember. I tried to kill him with a fork. It was an accident of course. I grew up in an Italian-Polish family, where we all speak with our hands. Of course, you don’t realize this until you turn a utensil into a projectile in the middle of a restaurant. It got EXCELLENT distance, I was proud.
Now, if you’ve been around long enough…say about 8 years (and I only think about one of my readers was there) you’ll remember the fork incident at Punxsutawney. I’m going to go ahead and start using sporks from now on.
The kids got a hold of one of my most recent pieces, a portrait I was working on of a friend who passed away. Now if you have ever seen me work on a piece, you know I could never make a living of it. It takes me a good four or five months to finish anything. I would starve in that time period. Today the MIL was on the phone and the kids were drawing in marker in the closet on the walls. Apparently they were using the canvas as leverage to reach those pesky high spots.
I should update you, I really should. It’s just that I am so exhausted. I’ve been switching back and forth between caffeine and wine and now every cell in my body is dying for a two gallon bottle of gatorade… just to soak in. In a tub–osmosis so my body can rehydrate while I possibly catch some sleep. It was the only way to survive the last week. I blame Miss V.
The United States has its first male prostitute. Leave it to Nevada. I’m attempting to read an already discombobulating article on the New York Times in the middle of jumping up to put Iz on the potty…three times. I’m not sure if it’s the Coca-cola I’ve traded out my routine morning tea for today (combined with all the running to beat iz to the bathroom with her frantic pee-pee dancing), or the article, but it becomes more nauseating as I go along.
His name is Markus, and his lips– if he were female we would, of course make some grand observation about being able to suck the paint off of an inanimate object, but he’s not. His lips look like they forgot to remove the collagen from the cow before putting it in the needle and having a go at it. They scare me. Go to the article if you don’t believe me. They just look wrong.
The article continues along it’s train wreck path (train wreck experience, the article is delightful), adding such awesome anecdotes as:
Minutes later, as we’re standing naked in the shower, he’s examining me like a second-rate gynecologist and nodding.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, cooing that I’m “practically” an 8 or a 9. “Everything looks great down there.”
Oh. My. God.
Oh. My. God. Is right. Gag. It’s bad, it gives me gross vibes, kind of like the thought of attending a male review. What’s the point? Why pay for meaningless sex (act) from what could, quiet possibly be the easiest sex (gender) in the world? Go to a bar, buy a guy a drink, take him home for an hour or two and donate your remaining $496 to UNICEF. Instead of feeling sleazy, you’ll come out on the other side feeling like Audrey Hepburn and forgoing the morning walk of shame.
Besides, if you have to hear lies like this, wouldn’t you feel better knowing you only invest $2.75 on a draft beer than $500 on a prosti-dude?:
I am only his second client, he has been with a total of six women in his life, and, to be perfectly honest, he lost his virginity at 23.
Before becoming America’s first legal “prosti-dude,” Markus dabbled in porn while he lived in Los Angeles but quit after just two scenes because he found it too degrading to women.
He also loves cooking French cuisine. Favorite meal: chicken cordon bleu.
The worse part about it? The man wears satin shirts. WTF? Head over to the article My Night with a Prosti-Dude if you have a few child-free moments, it’s enlightening.
She is spending her last night in the shop, getting her engine primed and ready for the long trip home. Tonight I am helmet hunting,
