The rumors are absolutely true.
I am having my mid-life crisis a little early. I will explain that later.
Just indulge me for a moment right now, would you, my dear sweet lovers? Vote on which photo I should use as my profile picture, the one that goes over there in the right side bar –>
Smile is the photo I have been using for the last two years. It’s the best picture I had of myself when I first started The Delicious Life. In fact, it was the only photo I had of just myself, sans distraction of other people or too much other background “noise” because how many people have portraits of themselves just laying around in a folder labeled “Sarah” on their hard drives?!
The photo is a decent representation of me, but it is two years old. That’s like running around with your very first driver’s license even though you’re 32! Not that I’m 32…
Kiss Kiss is a more recent photo, but it’s almost a little too, ohidontknow, racy?
Would you mind helping me pick which one I should use from this day forward, to have and to hold, until the Internet dies or I have yet another breakdown, do we part? Go back to the original Smile, or just keep Kiss Kiss, or screw them both and go with an anime representation of me: a chubby, pink, screaming monkey wearing a tiara?
Vote in the comments. Vote often. Vote early. I won’t even mind if you vote anonymously (you anonymous, lurking chicken).
Now about that mid-life crisis thing. Mid-life. Middle of life. First of all, if this is truly a middle-of-my-life crisis, what? Am I going to keel over when I’m 46 years old?!?! Okay, so maybe I’m not 23 years old right now, but maybe that is precisely the point, hmmmm?
I went bonkers this past weekend. I am talking c-r-a-z-y bonkers. I didn’t actually have a weird femotional breakdown wherein I sit on the edge of my bed in a faded five year old pink terry cloth Juicy jumpsuit crying my eyes out and staring at tiny pigeon’s feet at the corners of my eyes and hahafuckyougeezer laugh lines around my mouth. I don’t do breakdowns. No, I just sort of lost my mind, which yes, I realize isn’t possible when you’ve already lost your mind, but I mean I went all kinds of crazy.
I cleaned my house.
Yes, cleaning my house is an act of utter insanity because I never use the attachments on the vacuum. I used the attachments. I never move my couch to suck up the little dust bunny foo foos. I am a small person. I moved my couch. Crazy people have weird strength, you know. I took every bag, bottle, box, can, out of the pantry, tossed out the ones that had expiration dates of like, you know, 1987, used my Brother label maker and labeled containers, even though I know they are flour, sugar, brown sugar, sea salt, and Kosher salt. I even went onto the patio and cleaned the sliding glass doors from the outside. Who the hell cleans the outside of sliding glass windows? With Windex? That’s like making your bed every morning even though it’s just going to get all messed up within 18 hours.
I made my bed, too.
I went outside through the pristine clean sliding glass doors and mopped up the concrete patio, wiped down the railings, went through the painstaking process of identifying naughty bulbs and replacing them on the string of Christmas lights so they would light my patio up at night into a sparkling romantic terrace…for one, picked out every dead leaf and branch from my plants and re-potted and watered them all with a silent prayer that they would resuscitate from the dead.
Laundry – done. Dishes – done. Kitchen floor, bathtub, toilet. Donedonedone. I pulled everything, and I mean ev-ree-last-damn-thang, from my refrigerator, scrubbed down every visisble surface with 409 (which has probably rendered my refrigerator more of a chemicalaceous hazard to my health than it was) and just as I was about to put all the condiments back because really, that’s all I have in my ManFridge™, I tossed them all into the French Connection shopping bag that was serving as a trash bin. I threw out stacks of magazines that had been tossed into a pile month after month, unread. I re-organized of closet which resulted in eight, yes eight, yes one dozen minus four, bags of clothes for Goodwill. I re-arranged pictures on the wall, then thought better of it and took them down completely. Maybe I had inhaled too many fumes. Maybe I should have laid off the wine while cleaning. With each new mini-mini-project within my house, my eyes grew wider. My hair got wilder. Things *trash!* around my house *tossed!* went from mess *garbage!* to clean *goodwill!* to hyper-organized *dumpster!*…to empty.
I didn’t just clean my house.
I cleaned house.
I wanted to pop over to the nursery and pick out some gorgeous new Sago palms and Jades for the patio. I wanted to go to the grocery store to buy fresh new condiments, re-stock my pantry, fill up my wine rack, breeze through Barnes and Noble for some news books to read and to put on a brand new coffee table. I wanted to buy new artwork for my walls. No, I wanted to commission an artist to paint something especially just for me and my walls because now I think I’m the fucking d’Medici family.
I wanted to go to Bloomingdale’s and pick up a brand new set of luxurious Hotel linens, plush towels, and while we’re at it, toss in that dress, that dress, and that one over there, those jeans, a couple of pairs of skyhigh heels, and that cute little clutch. I could use a massage. I need a facial. I should go and chop off my hair and go with a short, sexy sophisticated style.
I think I want a new car.
Hell, I should buy a house!
New! Fresh! Buy! Buy! Buy!
See? Crazy. Mid-life crisis resulting in wild thoughts of spending money that very painfully, I do not have. I drank instead. My belongings weren’t the only things to get trashed this weekend.
So I resort to “cleaning up” and making little changes to The Delicious Life. Vote for a picture okay? Else I met get all crazy and change the blog to hot pink
font on a pale pink background.
But at least I’ll be blogging from a spotless house.