If I put both of my hands flat on my face and pull to the side, itâ€™s an improvement. If I wore jeans with an elastic panel that worked in sort of an opposite way to the ones you get when youâ€™re pregnant, that it would do wonders for the sad situation around my navel.
The problem is, I went through major surgery before I hit twenty and I canâ€™t get a tooth pulled without going under, so Iâ€™ve had enough of getting cut up and makeover favorites like pinning up eyelids or casting a stomach into the concrete flat slab I dream of is hard for me to get whooped up about.
Every once in a while I think about my hair or flap on some mascara or if the weather is exactly right and matches up with remembering to buy razors, Iâ€™ll wear a skirt, but the truth is I struggle thinking about what I look like.
What gets me really breathing hard is making happen what moves me.
I was schooled at the academy of Nice At Any Price, so for a long time I had no clue. When I left home I was a â€œyesâ€ girl, a â€œsure, no problemâ€ girl and it didnâ€™t matter if you were asking me to move over or work 12 weeks of consecutive double shifts wearing tight toed boots in a questionable restaurant or give up me all together for everything that was you because thatâ€™s what I thought I wanted.
But because of cramps I changed.
Now itâ€™s clear as a cow bell who I am and what I want to do and who I love and what I love and I want to build a fire under each of all of it.
I want to speak more Italian and I want to get more people to love food the way I do, I want my boy to love his life the way I love mine.
For dinner tonight Iâ€™m making chicken soup with the leftover bits of the chicken I roasted last night with lemon and pearl onions and rosemary. On the side Iâ€™m going to do thin strips of zucchini dipped in egg and flour and then fried a little of the best olive oil I have and then wrapped around an olive or a bit of cheese along with some spicy greens.