The 1001 and the Blessed Silence.

There is only so much you can do when you don't have somewhere to go everyday: a job, a place, a purpose.  After breakfast has been made and eaten, after the coffee has been drunk and the pot has been cleaned, what do you do?  The house is tidy beyond recognition and you've cleaned out every closet - twice, boxes have been packed and labeled, items have been sorted, cataloged or discarded. You've bagged and donated all the clothes that fit you 17 lbs ago.  You canceled your gym membership and allowed your yoga studio contract to expire.  None of the 103 people you've "friended" on Facebook have posted anything in hours; probably because they have jobs and responsibilities. You've already had the same argument about your failing marriage with your Mom that you had the day before.  She still thinks you should move to Ohio so you'll be "nearby". (shudder at the thought).  You've visited all the memorable places from your childhood: the house you grew up in, your high school, Scargo Tower, Nauset Beach, Princess Lake, Nickerson State Park.  You've hiked for hours on the nature trails and run for miles down historic Route 6A.  Your passion for cooking and food, which use to border on obsessive, has been reduced to homemade soups, oatmeal and the occasional inventive sandwich.  You.Are.Bored.

What do you do while fate decides your next step?  Well, I'll tell you I won't be sitting in Starbucks listening to bad jazz and whiny housewives - like I am right now.

Before the apocalypse, (aka - quitting my job, the removal of my soul by my in-laws and the eventual destruction of my marriage), my mother had asked me what I wanted for Christmas.  I always have to think of an item because asking for a gift card to a clothing store is wrong in her book.  You cannot "open" a gift card.  She cannot watch you enjoy a gift card.  So, to appease, I asked for a book I'd been eyeing;  "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die".  This was something I could accomplish unlike the "1001 Place to Visit."  I am not going to Antarctica. I don't care how cool it would be.  

I've read over 20 books in the past week.  Mostly cheesy romances with a few thrillers thrown in.  I recently donated my entire collection - minus a handful of favorites - to a local library.  Over a thousand titles in mint condition are currently shelved for public pleasure courtesy of yours truly.  How the hell could I pack and move that many books anyway?

The other day, I cracked the spine of 1001 to see what it was all about.  I thumbed by pictures of classics, foreign novels and new age hooey.  I noted the ones I had read in my youth - my grandmother was a teacher so summer reading lists weren't so much "suggested" as they were mandatory. Books have always been my first love.  They were a means of escape, a chance to have different lovers, to visit the unknown and to be someone else if only for a few hours. This past month they have been a sanity saver.  As I work to unravel, pack and put to rest the last 14 years of my life, books have been there to soothe me.  The well known characters have welcomed me into their complicated lives.  I  have been present while they work through their problems - more often than not, these problems are more complicated than mine. After all, I didn't just find out there is a murderer on the loose who is stalking me while I'm trying to figure out the dark and complex past of the mysterious stranger I just met at my new job as a fashion photographer.  And I thought my life was stressful.

The most important part of this literary therapy is the silence.  The calm, cool silence.  During the past few months, I have been overwhelmed with advice from every person I know.  Everyone has an opinion and each person has taken a side.  Everyone knows someone, who knows someone who has been through something similar but not quite the same thing as what I'm going through.  Won't I listen to their advice?  Maybe I should see the same marriage counselor they used.  You know, it really worked for them.  Well, it worked for 6 months and they eventually got a divorce and are married to different people now.  But, you never know, it could work for you.

The characters in the novels never ask me questions.  They never take sides.  They don't want me to move to Ohio. The only advice they offer is their experiences.  They are blissfully silent.  Comfortably silent.  Soothingly silent.

967 to go. I have started with "The Elegance of The Hedgehog" by Muriel Barberry.  Paris....here I come

Operation: Sweatpants

2 1/2 weeks.  That's 18 days.  Or it's 432 hours.  More seconds than I can figure out with a calculator.  It's a hellava lot of time.  Something close to forever.  That's how long I've been free.

People handle major life changes in numerous ways.  Some curl up in a ball and hide from the world.  Some become so depressed they eat the left side of the McDonalds menu on even days of the month and the right side on odd days.  Many go on drinking binges until their friends cart them off to AA.  Some go about life appearing unmarred until they have a nervous breakdown in the cheese section of the grocery store because they are suddenly out of Jarlsberg. (To the staff and onlookers at at Trader Joes, I'm so sorry...again).

I wear sweatpants.

To be fair, these aren't just any ordinary sweatpants nor are they those ridiculous things from Victoria's Secret with "Love" or "Pink" splashed across my derriere in rhinestones.  Don't pretend those pants are comfortable.  Sitting on a rhinestone barb is not a thing I want my ass to experience.  Those little teeth catch on everything and I don't need to dislodge myself from the afghan every time I need to refill my glass of Merlot.  These sweatpants are years old and perfectly broken in.  Some are stained with red wine, chocolate or some other mystery food that I found myself craving on a dark and stormy night.  My favorite pair has a hole in the crotch and the draw string is missing so I need a safety pin to hold them up.  They were once bright red but have faded beautifully to a soft, rosy pink.  They fall perfectly to my ankles leaving the tiniest amount of skin showing in between the hem and my slippers.  They look smashing when paired with my sisters college roommates sweatshirt. (Honey, you are never getting it back). They have the sex appeal of garlic breath and make my ass look misshapen. Sometimes you need to be comfortable to let your mind do some serious thinking.  The rattier the pair of sweatpants is, the better.  Throw your hair in a ponytail, wear your glasses instead of contacts and don't wear make up.  Allow yourself to cry when you want to, laugh when you feel insane and eat whatever the hell you want.  Healing is hard.

Why sweatpants, you ask?  Well, I might relate it to the episode of Friends where Chandler is in his sweatpants stage.  Here it is if you haven't seen it.

I've been back from my Florida vacation for exactly one week.  Or as I like to call it: Eternity While Babysitting Your Friends' Pet Rabbits and Living in a House You Use to Call Home But Now It Is More Like A Place You Live With a Guy Who You Use To Call Your Husband But Now He's Really Like a Roommate You Avoid Because The Sight of Him Makes You Angrier Than Lindsay Lohan At Last Call.  Yes. That is my current life situation.  At this very moment, sweatpants and wine are a staple and my God given right.

To quote the biggest, whiniest bitch in history: "After all, tomorrow is another day".  It may or may not include sweatpants.


Photo credit:  Who knows.  Found it on the internet when I Googled "depressed woman in sweatpants"
Video credit:  Youtube.com

Admired... Shamelessly So.

I have a friend whom I admire.  Not only is he an impossibly talented writer/blogger, but he is responsible for introducing me to his wonderful wife, who in turn, introduced me to her two friends.  The four of us have become the best of friends and every day I am thankful I have them in my life.  They accept me for all of my flaws and love me for who I am. They also get me into loads of trouble, convinced me it was a good idea for everyone at a party to do jello shots out of my belly button and just this weekend, helped me drink most of the alcohol in Rhode Island to celebrate my bravery as I left a horrible situation and entered a new chapter in my life.  They are diamonds in the rough. 

While I admire my friend for his life partner choice, I also admire him for other reasons.  He is not afraid to be who he is and write about what he believes in.  For as long has I've known him, he has tackled the tough subjects and controversial topics which have affected his life.  He has covered abortion, the death of a child, depression, politics, the harassment of his parents and other heavy topics.  He has written his unfiltered thoughts down with unapologetic honesty and shared it with the masses.  He's received hate mail and threats. He's made his wife angry - once enough that she threw something at his head - and has annoyed his friends on numerous occasions. But never, in the past 4 years that I've known him, he has never been ashamed of who he is and what he stands for. That is to be admired and respected.

I write under a pen name.  I don't see it as an act of cowardliness, but more of a safety measure.  I write about sex.  I get some interesting mail.  Some of it can be a little sketchy.  Sometimes I think the writer could be a good candidate for "stalkers anonymous."  I like sex alot.  But I do like to chose my partner and I would like to be the only one who posts nude photos of myself on line. (No, I'm not going to do that.  Don't even ask. Not for all the bacon in the world). I'm really a very private person who likes to entertain the masses with little snippets of my life. So sue me.  It makes me happy.

Today, I found out there are a bunch of people in my professional life that know about my little blog and Facebook page.  In fact, they've known for years.  How they found out is unimportant and the source is next to ridiculous.  But, they know and they think it's awful.  They've been sipping coffee with me all while knowing the scorching details of my sex life, my drinking exploits with friends and every other personal, heartbreaking and utterly sinful thing I have written about.  Everything.  When someone told me this fact, I was shocked and slightly horrified.  But then I felt something that scared me the most; I felt ashamed.

Now, we all know the saying "If you don't want anyone to know about it, don't put it on the internet".  More people have been fired, divorced, dumped, humiliated and scorned by a simple status post on Facebook.  We all have been there.  You can't take it back. Even if you delete it, someone has already seen it. It's etched in stone.  Everything I've written is up for the world to see. I cannot hide it.  Even if I delete it, more than likely, there is a copy somewhere. 

I am proud of what I've written. The momentary feeling of shame was quickly replaced by anger then pride.  I like what I've written.  It makes me happy.  Many of my ramblings may be silly and mindless. You may find them disgusting, stupid, insulting, ridiculous and poorly written. But, for every person who has a negative thing to say, I can find 5 people who think I'm brilliant, talented, funny, thoughtful, honest and sexy. I have been overwhelmed at the passionate, positive responses to my posts. While I write for myself, it is fun to think I write for others as well.  Someday I hope I'm admired by someone the way I admire my friend.  Coincidentally, I met him because of my blog.  If I had never started to write, I would have never met his wife.  Then I would have never met her friends. There would have been no jello shots and the wonderful night in Rhode Island would have never happened.

It's funny how life works out.

Wisdom of My Ages

I was just running through some old Twitter postings (yes you should follow me on Twitter @Utterlysinful.)  I gotta say, I'm a funny bitch.

• Up close pictures of a penis are never attractive.  EVER.  Yes, even when manscaped.
• A warm toilet seat should not be trusted.  You never know who was there before you and what they did to stay so long they managed to warm a piece of plastic.
• "Butt-load" load is an acceptable unit of measurement.  Still not sure if it's metric or standard.
• Bouncy castles are ageless.
• You never see a person with a hot body streaking. Sadly, there is a website dedicated to these idiots.
• Office assistants were put on this earth for me torture and sexually harass.
• People who don't masturbate don't know what they're missing.
• Do not wear a shirt that says "Free hugs" if you don't want me to try.
• Remember when you hated spankings?
• The number "69" will always make me laugh.  Every time.
• Bacon makes everything better.
• So does coffee, cake and things made with cheese.
• Standing up for yourself is awesome. Always be brave.  Always be ballsy.
• You're still thinking about masturbation, aren't you.
• People are all pissed about Instagram having the right to sell their pictures.  We should all start taking crotch pictures and see what happens then.  (See first item)
• I will always stay at a Doubletree because they give you a cookie when you check in.  Best marketing idea EVER!
• Stalking someone is a sign of flattery.
• Underwear is overrated.
• The best part about airports it the ability to drink at anytime of the day.
• Some days its fun to rip off the mask and show people what a true psychological mess you really are.
• It's fun to mark mundane voicemail messages with "Urgent" just because.
• I had my first french kiss in a movie theater, watching "Pretty Woman".  Ironic.
• What your staff doesn't know, won't hurt them.
• Never work for your in-laws.  It's like working for Satan and he comes over on the weekends for brunch and makes comments about your life choices..
• Everything in your fridge looks delicious after 4 glasses of wine.
• If you're ever on the phone with a chatty tech support person, tell them you have to pee.  Makes them work faster.
• You also believe you can cook anything in your fridge after 4 glasses of wine.
• Yup.  Still thinking about masturbation.
• Never be afraid to order bizarre food combinations.  It's fun to freak people out when you admit to liking a sandwich with breaded eggplant, bacon, mayo, lettuce and avocado.
• When you hug someone, wrap one of your leg around their legs in a "leg hug".  Totally freaks them out.  You can try it with the t-shirt guy too.
• Um....masturbation.

I Think It Might Be A Little Depressed

Quite recently, I had a friend call me a nympho.  I can hear you all sighing a proverbial "Duh", under your breath.  It's OK.  He hadn't seen me in awhile.  Sometimes people forget.  But, what he said is true.  I am.

Nympho: from nymphomanic from nymphomania: Excessive sexual desire in and behavior by a female.

Yup, guilty as Charlie Sheen in a whorehouse.

I love sex.  Sex with a partner, sex with myself, talking about sex, thinking about sex, dreaming about sex, watching sex....you get it.  I'm as crazy as a horny teenage boy who finds his older brothers stash of skin mags.

Buuuuuuuut, things haven't been all rosy, romantic and lovey-dovey lately in my life.  In fact, I'm currently not speaking to the person that is suppose to be giving me the sex.  By speaking, I mean having normal, human conversations.  Screaming matches?  That is something we've been having regularly and I have to say we may reach Eminem and Kim Mathers level.  We're getting very good at it. So we're not having sex.  Not even make up sex.  Everyone's had dry spells before.  And what do we do, Lovers?  We reach for our favorite box of goodies.  We keep ourselves satisfied until the storm blows over and we are free to fornicate again.

Well, nobody relayed that information to my crotch during this whole ordeal.  My brain must be spending all its power working on my lack of appetite (you know I'm depressed when I don't want to eat) that the naughty messages were being stopped around my spleen or something.  I've got nothing going on down there. Not even a twinge, twitch or tickle. I saw a picture of a shirtless VinDiesel and nothing.  Nothing!!  Usually the sight of him makes me go crazy and I'm breaking out the big toys.  I've tried everything.  I've Googled every hot actor with "shirtless" proceeding his name in the subject line.  I even tried some Salma Hayek for the hell of it.  I'm pretty sure this little ordeal hasn't made me line up for the other team, but Salma is usually good for a quick hit.

Nothing.  Nada.  Ziltch.  Zero. Dwiddly Squat. No Dice.

I have come to the conclusion that my VaJay must be depressed too.  Something must be wrong if it's not bothering me constantly to put things in it.  The first sign should have been when I wore sweatpants to the mall last week.  I know it's not against the law to do that.  But, I usually make the outfit cute.  Last week's ensemble told everyone at the mall my Vajay was depressed.  I'm pretty sure it let everyone know I'm boycotting sleep too.  I looked so bad the make up ladies at Macy's didn't bother me.  They're probably still gossiping about the girl with the scary hair, bad makeup and depressed vagina.

So I'm wearing sweatpants in public, I'm not having sex and my VaJay is on strike.  I'm still not a Lindsay Lohen level.  I may be dangling around the Britney Spears zone. Maybe more towards the Tara Reid. I've passed Amanda Bynes ranking but did not chose the driving option.  I did a David Hasselholf last week with a cheeseburger - but I did not do the drinking before hand.

Thank God I'm terrified of needles or I would have tattooed something ridiculous by now. But, not on my VaJay. Maybe I should.  It might wake her up.

I Will Never Have The Right Curves

I like bread.  Let me rephrase that.  I LOVE bread.  Crispy, chewing, savoury bread.  I like to dip it, dredge it, toast it, butter it, and fill it with french onion soup.  I feel sexy when I have my hands kneading a pillowy soft mountain of dough.  I feel comfort when I pull a loaf out of the oven and it perfumes the air with soft, homey fragrances.  What does bread have to do with curves?  Well, just about everything.

I read every magazine having to do with cooking or fitness. (I read People too. I'm just not ready to admit it in public).  My cooking magazines are lined up in pretty boxes, by date of course, on the top shelf of the desk in my home office.  I refer to them constantly for recipes or ideas.  My fitness magazines get recycled at the local magazine swap after I've combed thru them.  I tear out articles to follow up on exercise ideas.  These pages are currently in a dusty pile on my desk. I'll get to them, I swear.  I just have to finish the latest article on pumpkin bread with caramel frosting in Fine Cooking.  The fitness magazines inspire me. They make me want to run 15 miles a day and go to yoga.  Most of them have pictures of healthy, strong women.  Except for this:

"Do you want Rachel Bilson's curves it says".  Sure.  Where are they?  The only curve I see is her boob.  Everything else is stick like and pointy. Are those the curves you are talking about?  No thankyouverymuch.

I know Rachel Bilson is not a  model.  But she could be.  I'm not jealous.  I feel sorry for her.  I feel sorry for those women who think she is the idea of "Women's Health".  She looks like a bobble head doll. ( I know this is an old addition of WH but I'm catching up on my reading now that I'm unemployed)  I get that every women has a specific body type.  Some people will never have voluptuous curves like my gorgeous friend Sully who has breasts to DIE for! Some people will never have a willowy figure like my friend Bonnie.  It will never, ever happen. Their bodies aren't made to be the opposite of what they are.  So what do my beloved girls do about it?  They embrace themselves and pull out the sexy.

I recently had a conversation with my guy BFF.  We were talking about sex, (I know. You're shocked) My BFF looked at me and said quite simply, "All of these women think they need to slim down to nothing.  It's like bouncing on a pile of sticks.  I feel like I'm going to break them."  I nodded sympathetically while I munched on a plate of chili fries.  "Finally, I was with this girl who took care of herself and had a little something extra.  It was amazing."

Straight from a guys mouth.  Made me feel good.  Granted society is not adopted that option quite yet, but I'm a believer.  Just the other day someone told me smaller boobs were coming back in style.  I'm planning a parade if that happens and I will be topless.  But, I digress.

Stop killing yourself to look like the curves you think you should have.  Be healthy.  Be strong.  Be sexy. Be yourself.  Have some bread.  It looks good on you.

It's A Hard Days Night....

I'm on Day 10 of a 26 day working binge.  Not fun and it makes me a cranky bitch to boot.  No one wants to be around me.  I don't even want to be around me.  I start to closely resemble Meryl Streep in "A Devil Wears Prada", but without the fabulous clothes, chic hair or tidy office.  Instead, I'm pretty sure I'm wearing my thong backwards, I don't know when I last washed my hair and my office looks like we just survived a 7.5 earthquake.  It's tough being the H.B.C (Head Bitch in Charge) during a big case.  The minions are tiptoeing around me. I'm sure they can't wait until this is all over and I leave for my vacation on Nov 9th. I saw it written on someones calendar with a smiley face.

As you all know, I cook when I'm stressed.  The Husband came home last night to find me at the stove with every burner going at full steam.  He gave me a peck on the cheek and ran upstairs to safety.  I made this fabulous soup to calm my nerves.  It's packed with lots of healthy junk and smells divine.  I brought it for lunch today and I hope it makes everyone starving when I heat it up in the breakroom microwave.

Cannellini Bean and Squash Stew

Borrowed from "The Sonoma Diet Cookbook" 

1 Tbs extra virgin olive oil

1 chopped onion

6 cloves of garlic, grated

1 Tbs Sweet Hungarian paprika

28 oz chicken broth

3 cups 1 inch cubed butternut squash

1 14 oz can diced tomatoes, undrained

1 Tbs chopped fresh rosemary

2 14 oz cans of cannellini beans (white kidney beans)

1 Tbs chopped fresh thyme

Kosher salt

black pepper

shaved Manchego or Parmesan cheese

In a dutch oven heat oil over med heat.  Add onions and cook for 5 min or until tender

Add garlic and paprika cook for 2 min more.

Add chicken broth, squash, undrained tomatoes, and rosemary. Bring to boil then reduce heat to simmer, cover and cook for 15 min or until squash is tender

Drain and rinse beans, add beans, parsley and thyme and cook uncovered for 10 mins at low simmer

Shave cheese over individual bowls.