Last night Lonny and I binged on the final season of Breaking Bad. I don’t have anything to say about it except it was satisfying. And I’m so glad it’s over.
I can only bear to watch people destroying themselves with greed, pride and hubris for so long.
I caught an interview with a methamphetamine expert on NPR. When asked if he watches Breaking Bad, he said, “No, it’s too depressing.”
Gorging on four episodes led to tortured dreams and a rather morose outlook on life today. Naturally I rang Tabby for a walk. I won’t go into the details of our walk except to say that she has LOTS of opinions on how to execute a proper headstand.
And we talked about chaos. This last week was the Lollapalooza of chaos, as far as being a suburban mom is concerned. I came to the conclusion that:
1. I kind of like it. It makes me feel alive.
2. I make it happen, or at least I leave the door open to it. I could structure my life in a way that left no opportunity for pole fails, giant dog encounters, and random people by not having a pole, not having a giant dog and not being interested in just about everyone who walks by.
3. I’d rather food taste good than be pretty.
I came to conclusion #3 this morning on my walk. I was telling Tabby about a party where absolutely everything with perfect. Like perfect, perfect. The food was catered and beautiful, the house was immaculately clean and gorgeously decorated, the entertainment was lovely, not a single detail was overlooked.
Seriously, Martha Stewart would have shit herself. I was doing my usual death spiral of inadequacy when a someone said, “Everything was beautiful but it tasted like nothing.” And he was right. Everything needed some salt and a dash of hot sauce.
I don’t mean to bag on this lovely party because I had a wonderful time and was grateful to be invited. There is no one who appreciates a party more than I do, or what it takes to throw one. I simply need to stop worrying that my party (aka LIFE) isn’t as good as someone else’s party (AKA LIFE) because it’s messy and chaotic.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d love for my food to be gorgeous AND delicious, but if I had to choose …
Timpano isn’t a completely perfect metaphor because I never make it, Alana does. And when she makes it, it’s beautiful and delicious until you cut into it and it gooshes all over the place and I eat so much that it hurts and there are dishes and parmesan cheese shreds and spilled red wine all over the place.
But it is a perfect because one Timpano will feed 30 people with plenty left over, there is something in there for most people (but not everyone because really, who can please everyone and why even try), you can’t be at a Timpano party without feeling great abundance and gratitude and it would be NO FUN AT ALL if you were eating it by yourself.
Celery, on the other hand is clean, has no calories to speak of, no fat, isn’t smelly or messy, no one is allergic to it and is perfectly self contained. I even love the color but it tastes kind of like mildly salted water.
Celery is the poster child for minimalism but who gets psyched to eat a stalk of celery? Who is like, ‘Fuck yes! There’s celery at this party!”
I’d rather be a Timpano than the perfect stick of celery because if striving for perfection takes the love out of life (and believe me, it does) then it isn’t worth it. I’ve got to embrace the mess. I’ve got to be okay with never achieving that perfect home because it won’t happen unless I get rid of the husband, the kids, the dog and the cat. Then what would be the point?
But because I promised to get rid of ten things a day for a year, and I keep my promises, it’s time to cut the crap. Only 48 more days to go, then I’m throwing a motherfucking Timpano party. With pole dancers.