I don’t really want this newsletter to be just about the fact that we’re stuck at home and it’s funny and dramatic and what is the world going to become!
We’re stuck at home.
And what the hell is the world going to become.
Also, I just can’t stand cooking anymore.
People of Instagram, please stop. Ludo, Gwyneth, Alison, all of you, please stop. Don’t tell me you’re still having fun. Stop lying. I can’t look at my fucking oven without thinking : should I just put my head in it?
Okay, disclaimer because we live in a world of disclaimers and even if I know it’s just us here (yay you guys, YAY!) I want to make it clear before you call the services on Graham. I am not a slave of the household at all, we’re all participating and kind to each other
except that time someone dropped a sausage and then put it right on my plate and very very patient with each other except that time I patronized someone about the art of squeezing a lime and the tasks are pretty well distributed except that it seems that everybody thinks the clean plates in the dishwasher have tiny legs and go back to their cupboard on their own when no body is watching so no bragging but we’re really doing pretty well here down under.
Other disclaimer - I am very much not an obsessive housekeeper and that’s putting it mildly. Do not get fooled about the fact fact that I iron my sweatpants, this is just vanity. I am useless and I intend on staying that way. I spent my first blog money, not on clothes, but on a housekeeper. I love my housekeeper and I miss her very, very, very much : I think she is kind of mother figure in my life, out there repairing one trauma after the other better than any shrink I’ve ever had… Like all of them kind of do. My grandma was a cleaning lady, so I would know. But I am pretty useless at housecleaning, I know that too.
Where the hell was I going before I started making excuses for absolutely LOVING having a housekeeper, going as far as pulling the “I’d know, my grandma was a cleaning lady” that almost brought you to tears?
Oh yeah, the long list of disclaimers.
Jesus we really live in a CRAZY world, if even I have to say I am sorry every five seconds.
Think about the celebrities, poor them!
On the one hand, we live in a world where the people who have the most crazy lifestyles and the most stuff on display have the most followers.
On the other hand they have to spend their time pretending they’re normal (they’re not) that their houses are messy (they’re not) that their kids poop too (they don’t) and that yes they have shiny stuff but look how generous they are with their money (sure, charities are good, but they’re also a tax cut, guilt cut, and often huge PR opportunity, so STOP making us feel bad because you’re so good okay!?)(BE MEAN AND ARROGANT and leave us alone!)(like, how annoyingly perfect and self-aware and funny and hot but not too hot and Canadian (=adorable) is someone like Ryan Reynolds?)(Just stop now! Gosh so annoying!!!).
Thank god I am not a celebrity (my dog actually poops) and I don’t have to pretend that I cook constantly when I actually have a full time employee doing it for me (I wish!)(you do not have to feel guilty with me if you have one)(as Americans say : “good for you!”). Still, let me do my last disclaimer and get on with my story even though I personally don’t even remember what I am writing about anymore at this point.
Also if you cook that much and stay slim I am sorry but there is something you’re not telling us okay bye.
Oh yeah, last disclaimer. It’s not the first time I live with children. It’s not my first rodeo okay? I am not surprised. I am not in shock. I kind of knew kids okay? Kind of. Plus, I can say it without saying too much, these two are the most adorable ones ever. Like right now I am in my bed writing to you and one of them is sitting here working on her book (on her book!!!!!) quietly.
I mean, doesn’t get much cuter than this, even I have to admit.
I know we have the quarantine layer to take into account, okay, okay.
It makes all our days the same, okay okay. Still.
The everyday. Cooking, eating, cleaning the kitchen, watching a movie. Brush teeth. Go to bed. Wake up. Coffee. Bla bla. Thinking IN THE MORNING what you’re going to eat that evening. Uuuuuuuh. Whaaaaaaaaat?
Oh, also, and please keep in mind the disclaimers and remember that we’re all participating in this household made in heaven that I live in, but how about cooking while everyone else is doing their thing??? What the fuck? Like you’re there cooking and people walk by you saying wow smells amazing and then off they go in the distance and you do a little smile but secretly you want to punch them? OH, and how about cooking something delicious and people don’t care much about the food you’ve made? Or worse, they don’t like it and you have to act like it’s totally okay and you're cool with it? Oh, and how about you’re cooking and people say “come watch the sunset so beautifuuuuuuul!!!” and you go and then your food burns?
How thankless is the job?
How transparent do you feel? It’s insane!
How did my mother do that!!!? It’s like I suddenly understand everything.
I understand why people cook so furiously for Instagram!
At least they get some fucking likes!!!
So anyway, cooking, cleaning, ah, gawd.
How the life I chose is so insanely different than all of this. I didn’t realize.
If I don’t want to cook, I just don’t. If I want to eat chocolate for dinner, then say no more, bring it on. No kitchen cleaning. If I don’t want to talk to anyone for a day, you guys, I DO IT. Two days. Three bloody days. If I have my period and I want to kill everyone, them bam, a day in bed watching Sex And The City and I wake up fresh like a rose. If I want to hop on a plane to New Zealand just because, well pooof, bye for now Los Angz. If I want to go work at a café in a morning, I pick my stuff and go. If I want to spend the night out, I can do it!!! Okay I never do it. But I can!
I said that to my friend who is a mother of two and very, very real talk, I said “the repetitiiiiiion is killing meeeee” - and she told me : Why do you think wine exists? (she actually didn’t say that, this is me trying not to kill you with the truth of what she really said by throwing in the easy, socially accepted coping mechanism that is wine)(Which should be worrisome, but that’s just my opinion)(People shouldn’t have to drink to go through life)(I mean, mezcal is how I am getting through this quarantine, but this quarantine is not life, right?)(The truth of what she said was “Why do you think some mothers want to burn their house down?”).
[Insert seven hundred disclaimers about how I am conscious I am not a mother and I could never understand what it truly is to be one and oh that I am aware I am privileged that I have food to cook with and ah yeah throw in that I am not encouraging alcohol consumption here][But I do encourage you to smoke a lot of pot okay? I count on you!!!][Omg,KIDDING!]
Anyway. I’ll say it.
Sometimes I feel like the repetition and the sameness of every day could kill my soul.
That I could wake up in ten years and nothing would have changed except we’d all be older. It’s freaky, my friends, it’s freaky.
But then I start cooking and it’s beautiful.
Suddenly, I understand all the people baking their own bread. I make my famous ratatouille and it’s healthy and hearty and fills the house with love. I put it in my mouth and I’m home, in the South of France.
I use the time when the ratatouille is cooking to clean the kitchen. I am listening to a podcast. Everything is quiet, everyone is in the different part of the house, doing their thing. It’s so nice. It feels so good. My guy comes back with a load of groceries. Tells me it smells delicious. And gives me a kiss too. It’s so nice. The kids made me beautiful paintings for my birthday. It’s so nice. I know that tonight I’ll have a
double mezcal, dry please fun diner where we’ll play games and then we’ll all watch Cheer cuddled on the couch. It will be so nice.
And I think that soon, I’ll have to leave.
And about how much I am going to miss my little New Zealand bubble made of a lot of love and of beautiful nothings.
I’ll go to LA, and be re-united with Lulu, the best pup in the world, and my lovely joyful peaceful bubble of freedom.
And that we can love the same instants we hated a second ago.
And that there is no “best choice” in life, if you were ever wondering.
Everything is equal, and everything is, at some moment, a torture...
But mostly, everything is a gift.