I probably misspoke. Gordon Ramsay didn’t really save my life. Not more, not less. But I think you already knew that.
On Kitchen Nightmares, after a lot yelling on Gordon Ramsay’s part, and a lot of crying on the Restaurant Owner’s part, somehow everything worked out in the end.
Walk-in refrigerators were cleaned, appliances were replaced, menus were revamped and taught to somewhat qualified cooks, front of house staff was retrained and perhaps most important, chairs, banquets, walls, window coverings and that disgusting worn, torn and smelly carpet was replaced.
In the space of a week, lives were changed, houses and college funds were saved, relationships were repaired and a fresh, brand new future dawned for all those concerned. Then Gordon Ramsay threw on his signature leather jacket, shook hands, kissed a few cheeks (on both sides), was the recipient of heartfelt hugs and disappeared into the night.
I wanted that. My life had disintegrated. My future was uncertain. My direction was unclear. There was nothing left, except for a POD full of stuff sitting in a storage building in Van Nuys. All my beautiful things. All my beautiful hopes and wishes and dreams. And more than anything, more than anything, I wanted Gordon Ramsey to appear in my little trailer and yell at me and tell me how to fix it and what to do and where to go from here.
But I knew he wasn’t going to show up. Not in person. Not in his black leather jacket or his navy plaid shirt, or his white short sleeve chef jacket that he would don in some hotel room during the segment when he decided to stay and deliver the restaurant from certain ruin. He would pull off his t-shirt and expose his naked chest before he slipped into his white coat and prepared to save the day.
Gordon Ramsay has a nice body but I always thought that part was a little weird. I grew up with Clark Kent as Superman and never saw the actual transformation. At most, Clark would pull off his glasses and loosen his tie before ducking into or behind something to change. Now when I think of Superman, all I can envisage is him trying to squirm into those blue leggings, they way I and most of the American Women I know struggle to pull up pantyhose and now, to some extent, Spanks.
Somehow, it takes away from the Super-ness of it all. Or course it’s possible that Superman wore that outfit under Clark Kent’s clothes all the time, but I would think it would be a little difficult to go to the bathroom that way. I know it is with pantyhose, which I why I stopped wearing them.
And those were shows. TV Shows. And I know a little something about TV shows and movies and theatrical plays.
And what I know is, they have very large behind-the-scenes crews. Ten, Twenty Five, Fifty, Hundreds. And it’s those people who do all the work and those people who make all the magic.
I had 3 Chihuahuas and a horse. I love them but they are not a big help when it comes to making magic. They do make a lot of poop. Most of which I have to pick up.
But I tried what Gordon Ramsay had shown me and all those Restaurant Owners how to do.
I had tried to make the little trailer habitable. I had spent over $600 dollars having it professionally cleaned. I had taken down the folding, plastic door separating the sleeping area and replaced it with a lovely blue sheer curtain. I had spent well over $300 at Wal-Mart, buying and installing white mini-blinds, cheerful red and yellow cafe curtains & rods and bright turquoise area carpets & runners. I had spent another $100 at the Dollar Store buying colorful orange and red plastic things to hold cutlery and hand towels and cover edible things that my guest flies could help themselves to.
I discovered that Lowe’s sold flypaper in bright designs.
Actually that kind of came as a shock. That so many people would need color co-ordinated fly paper that a major national retailer such as Lowes actually would stock it in all their stores… It wasn’t the thought of all of those flies. I am sure that there are as many flies on the planet as there are birds in the sky. It was the thought that there were so many people who would actually need that kind of fly paper. That those people were actually living with so many flies so that they needed fly paper that enhanced and coordinated with their living quarters.
I knew that my life was going to need something more than a cosmetic make-over. That no amount of designer fly paper or Febreeze was going to cover up what I was beginning to realize.
Gordon Ramsay was right.
Something very very bad things had been rotting in my refrigerator for quite some time. And just like those Restaurant Owners, I had become so accustomed to those things being there, that I no longer paid them any attention. And that was the big problem.
They were the things I had come to believe, about myself, my life and about life in general. Almost 60 years worth of stuff I had learned, of stuff that I had taught myself, of stuff I had been taught to believe. Beliefs that had long ago rotted, that were long past their sell-by date. Almost 60 years of beliefs that were not working anymore. Not only were those things not working anymore, they were ruining me. So something, maybe even a lot of things, had to change. I was going to have to change.
But unlike Kitchen Nightmares, I had no crew of 10 or 25 or 100 people to help steam clean the grease-laden stove or help dump the rotting boxes of produce and proteins. Gordon Ramsay was not going to show up at my little trailer. I had to roll up my sleeves and do it myself.
I was going to have to save my own life.
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END PART FOUR