"Perfection is a Skinned Knee"

I think it was back in October when I'd declared I would quit smoking. I've cheated on this resolve a number of times. Telling myself: "Well at least I've cut back." Which I have. A pack of cigarettes lasting an entire week. Until one night Jim saw the pack of cigarettes in my coat pocket. He didn't ride my ass about it, but he made a couple comments that made me feel reasonably guilty. In trying to keep things positive--And not wanting to do this out of guilt--I try to remember when I was 1yr + without a cigarette and how he would proudly tell his friends I've been smoke-free.

I don't understand why that's such a big deal to me-- That someone be proud of me.
And that when people talk about me and are given to describe me and my habits it be resonably admirable. I mean, it's common sense that a person wants others to speak well of them. But I worry about the type of compliments.
"Oatmeal above the eyebrows, that girl. But she's a good lay!" --I'd said this about myself the other night, suggesting this was what Jim thought of me. Naturally, he begged to differ. Since then, he's been telling me my redeeming qualities are my cooking and my writing. And I don't need a degree to be a good writer. My writing skills are born of instinct and self-education via reading other literature. There's a lot of truth to this, really. It's called 'Felt Sense'. I did a paper on it for Grammar in Context. It's how we know something but can't explain how we know it. Something that's inherent and you have a helluva time teaching it to someone else because you've never had to stop and take it apart. Because it worked.

What's fucked up about it for me, is that all the knowledge I find 2nd nature is shit that does me no good in the real world. I can read a book and paint you a picture. But that doesn't get my checkbook balanced or get the ducks herded back into the pen.
I'm a winner. Oh yes.

Maybe it's nicotine withdrawals. Jim noticed it yesterday,
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Is it me?"
"No! Not at all. Don't worry about it. It's nothing."
"I've known you for 6 years," (7, going on 8) "I know when something's bothering you."

I just haven't been feeling very intelligent lately. He's told me to stop this "I'm stupid" talk because it's simply not true. He's so kind.

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

This recent bite from the creative bug is infecting more than just my desire to draw. At least this is the conclusion I'm drawing. As I'd told Sarah last night, I noticed that this desire to do more/be more creative in the kitchen surfaced about the same time my desire to draw did. And now I'm wanting to paint. Googling all the Great Masters and saving the pictures. Had I the ink, I'd be printing them and sticking them in my sketch book. Something to reference. Something to admire & inspire.
I'm also exceptionally excited about our Thanksgiving Dinner I'm planning for tomorrow. I got a bird, the whole 9 yards. I've been talking about it since Monday or Tuesday, I think.
“You're looking forward to this, aren't you?” Jim'd asked with a grin.
I explained that for me the holidays had always represented a time for cooking and baking. A time for good food and lots of it.
Last night I made spaghetti. Jim called me last night and I ended up divulging all my intended surprises. Even the gizzards. He chuckled lightly as I was babbling on about the menu, but wouldn't tell me what he thought was so funny.
Then, this morning I brought in the spaghetti and Jim said, “You're trying to kill me, aren't you?”
“What??”
“With all this food.”
I do love cooking and baking. Although I must confess that it's not a consistent love. Which is not unlike my fascination with haute coture.
The only snag here, is that some of the dishes I would love to do are things that Jim probably wouldn't touch with a 40ft. pole.(Asian Cookbook, I'm looking at you.)
But it just seems so perfect that this desire to cook surfaced when it did. 'tis the season and all that rot.
But—Anyway,
Yes, I'm tickled about the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I hope I can pull it off. I somehow ended up taking the pumpkin pie out and replacing it with a frozen banana creme. It's cheating, but Sarah assures me there's nothing wrong with cheating. I do intend to make fresh pies this year, but due to time issues, the only way I could squeeze in the time for a fresh one would be to go home early today. Like at noon or something. But I'm still on the proverbial picket fence with that one.

I feel slightly guilty, actually. When I talk about it with Sarah. Fixing this great feast that she may not get any of. But remembering that we'll have our own feast next Thursday with the fam. When I was babbling last night, Jim suggested I make a pie or two for next Thursday. I said I hadn't figured out exactly what, but I did intend to make stuff to bring. Deviled Eggs naturally popped to the fore and Jim said he'd bring me 2 dozen eggs. There's a part of me that's thinking about how health conscious the Family Feast will be, and how Mom will put some queer spin on an old fave. Remember the pie she made with raw sugar and some hippie wheat flour? And if I bring dishes, they'll be traditional.

Shit. This isn't getting any writing done. And last night Jim urged me to get to bed early so I'd be rested enough to write today. Really write.
Well alright. I'll open it and make myself sit in front of it. Until I can't stand it anymore.