The makeover

If I put both of my hands flat on my face and pull to the side, it’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 you’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 can’t get a tooth pulled without going under, so I’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, I’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 “yes” girl, a “sure, no problem” girl and it didn’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 that’s what I thought I wanted.
But because of cramps I changed.
Now it’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 I’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 I’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.

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