You’ve been waiting for me to write this. I’ve been waiting for a moment I could. Now that it is here I lay in bed, watching the sunrise from my bed, alone, without you. I’m waiting for the house to come alive with little feet and cuddle hugs, far away from the breadown and anger that follow home two confused little girls with tear streaked cheeks.

In the morning, i’m not thinking about broken landlords, broken mailboxes, broken banks. All I see is you and your upcoming trip to Atlanta and how you expect a girl to survive on words and air alone when you’re not there. Happiness is not the consumption of heat and soul and flesh. And it’s certaintly not in the ice bath of your memories.

I’ll miss you,
but we all have to find our own gravity.
 

Tonight:

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?

Issue 1: Confront Your Fears.

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.

Issue 3: Release Control and Learn to Follow.

Follow? Me? Hardly. ‘Nuff Said.

Issue 4: Relax and Have Fun

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.

RIP painting.

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.

iz’s 2nd birthday fash.

Today the kids are excited: they were invited to a party with other little girls. Not just any other little girls, but fellow Barbie aficionados. A dear friend of Miss Vero’s invited us. “The girls will love it,” she says “our block is a sea of pink Barbie Jeeps as far as the eye can see.”

This, of course, brings us to the battle du jour.
Solaris and fashion are like oil and vinegar. She tries, it’s just hard for her in a town where all the other little kids are fine in their Garanimal shorts and tees. We do a lot of research online and quality time with Vogue to try to steer her in the right direction. For instance, today it’s a balmy 80 degrees or so. IsaLuna dons her super cute floral tunic from Carters in a super cute blogosphere/etsy inspired print (sans panties, as usual with her, but that is another battle).

iz’s tunic pattern.

Sol pops out in a long sweater dress ready to go. I shake my head.

ME: You can’t wear that today, sweetie, it’s too hot out.

Sol: I’m cold.

ME: (Changing direction) It’s not really in season. Here, look online at what the other little girls are wearing.

I pull up the Gymboree site, followed by Saks. I quickly learn that trying to negotiate fashion decisions with Sol using the Saks site is a mistake. Skipping past all the more affordable outfits like Chloe, Isabel Garreton and Burberry (and I use “affordable” losely), she goes right for the D&G. Even Dior is 1/3 the price of Dolce&Gabbana.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not one to spend more than $30 on a kid’s outfit given how they have a tendency to completely DESTROY anything they get near. (Artist kids– if it can be painted, it will be painted). And isn’t the purpose of buying higher quality clothing so it last longer, or is this just my utilitarian view of the matter? So if they are only in a size for a month or two, what is the point?

The Principles of Fashion Education in Emo Preschool
The original purpose of the exercise was to instill an appreciation for fashion, not that I want her to go out and drop $300 on a kid’s outfit, but so that she can learn an appreciation for style and quality so when she is out at a really great vintage shop and happens across an awesome vintage Balenciaga she won’t think twice about snatch it up for her dear mother. Ok, so really it’s so that she is able to recognize classic lines, textures and colors and apply them to more sensible items.

Fashion is an art, and like any other art is an equal mix of investment and sensuality. To not teach them to appreciate art is a tragedy. Materialism is an entirely different monster from art appreciation. She can go and experience a Van Gogh the same way she can experience a Versace, but it doesn’t mean she needs to own it. In fact, sometimes I wonder if the better investment would be to never own a Van Gogh, but instead take the lessons his pieces teach her about art and learn to recognize the potential in up and coming artists.

At least until she marries her pianist prodigy husband, Ethan and can buy herself as many Van Goghs and D&G sun dresses as her little heart desires. Until then the sweaters stay in the closet when the thermometer breaks 75, kid.

Oh eHarmony. You lost me at hello. A while ago, when things caved in on my current life and it was time to start looking for new things: new job, new apartment, new nanny, I also started doing a little research on my new dating options (just to look, at this point replacing the nanny is more important than replacing the boy.) I started talking with my mom about things and she suggested eHarmony.

Mom: You know your Uncle Eric met his wife on eHarmony.

So I went. And I filled out their HUGE personality test (p.s. they repeat questions in one form or another) and found the most boring profiles of my life. It felt like I was pouring through ten thousand profiles of the same person: “i love my family, My favorite book is:  i don’t read books (which is obvious by their atrocious profiles. Capital letters!!!! My love, don’t let your Freudian aversion to big and intellectual scare you. Capital A’s are sexy) and my idea of a romantic date is: dinner.” Yawn.

At least with PlentyofFish and Craigslist, you can sit down with a bowl of popcorn and entertain yourself with some of the tragedies you find. eHarmony is just…harmonious. A big bowl of blah. And then the emails came: it was ridiculous waking up in the morning to dozens of emails with pretty similar subject lines: “Meet Philip and see if you spark” or “your match with Steve could be the start of something great”. My email box wreaked of eHarmony commercials! The subjects easily could have been “We don’t care about your future, just give us $50 a month to bug you with our branding!”

It’s hard enough not mailing out invoices for my time to these advertisers already, I’ll be damned if I’ll be paying anyone for my time in the near future. Thanks mom, but I’m not looking for wife, or a husband, or even a date right now.

Really what it boiled down to was research. Like shoe shopping, which is futile online, before I dragged my butt away from the computer and actually walked into Dillards, I wanted to know what styles were on the market right now. What I found: a lot of blue collar with spelling errors and big trucks, a few older gents with relatively established careers (and a nagging suspicion that something was terribly wrong with them) and a few ladies who’s boyfriends probably posted the ad for them. Shoe shopping online is tragic, you have to be able to physically run your hands over the product to know what you are really getting and if it will even fit you. The worse thing you could do is fall in love with a great pair of shoes and find out they are two sizes too small.

act 2. finis.