big dicks ah swingin'

can a girl have too much Chutzpah?

me working on my mojo

Chutzpah noun informal extreme self-confidence or audacity.

Dear Rebecca, please tell me the truth. Can a girl have too much chutzpah? Can she really swing her big dick energy every time she walks into a room? Why yes Virginia. Yes, yes she can. I know because I’ve been doing it ad nauseam since I started writing love letters to myself last summer. And boy howdy once I started loving up on all of my wrinkles, warts and brain farts, well, let’s just say I created a monster. But I don’t care because I was feeling pretty damned unloveable and that, Virginia my dear, ah-SUCKS.

I started loving up on myself because getting dumped at 57 after a spin dizzy last go at forever love can really tank a girl’s ego. Although I can’t say I blame him. I did after all dead name his penis a vegan banana dick (shit!)(why?) It was more of a number two pencil—but still. Nothing to sneeze at (pees pants). In the words of Cher “getting old pisses the fuck out of me.” But here we are. Getting older and wiser and more chutzpahz-ier.

Lately I’ve been getting looks from people (men) like maybe I’ve gone overboard with this whole loving myself—drinking the kool aid self-self—thumping my double D self-self while I swing my big dick self-self. Like the other day when a coworker mentioned not once but twice that I was making too much tip money (jokingly) and I said yeah that’s because I’m the best at what I do. And he stopped kinda mid sentence just sort of bemused like he was seeing BigFoot or a Dodo bird. An overly confident woman? Wait what now?

Blowsy adjective coarse, untidy, and red-faced (typically used of a woman)

The next time he mentioned it (jokingly) I said that’s because I’m making this place an ass load of money dot-dot-dot—because I’m really really really GOOD at what I do. And he was again startled—bunny hop skittish startled actually. And he’s a sweetheart of a man. I adore him. He’s kind and funny and smart and gay (even better). Truly. But I think he just isn’t used to a blowsy old thing like me tooting her own horn. But give a dog a bone and shit slides south when it comes to me.

And not to go on and on about it but bless his heart—one of my loud New Yorker—Miami lawyer regulars wrote a google review the other day and I quote: Rebecca is the best bartender in the county at least that's what myself and the five other people at the bar think. LOL. I saw that and I couldn’t WAIT to bring it up in casual conversation. And when I came on shift with my bucket of lemons and limes he goes I know I know. I saw it. And then he bunny hopped onto the elevator to get away from my overhand lasso dick twirl. Yippee Ki Yay mother fuckers!

Insufferable adjective very annoying, unpleasant, or uncomfortable, and therefore extremely difficult to bear:

Exactly. But also. I don’t care. Because it feels so good after years of self doubt and anxiety. And a menopause that stole my words and short term memory. I won’t get into it now but menopause made me duck-quacky. Like I legit turned into a dumb ass for a solid four years. I entirely lost words, names and things I knew. I walked around quacking fuck-fuck-fuck with my bad hip duck waddle. I’d go for a simple sentence. Run Spot run. Find my Dick and also where is Jane? And come up instead with a mini-stroked out mish-mash of ephemera. A door knob for breakfast. A hamburger shoe.

Gobbedly gook noun informal language that is meaningless or is made unintelligible by excessive use of abstruse technical terms; nonsense.

Sugar and spice everything nice. Winkin-blinkin-nod. I was losing myself. My words. My snips and snails. I distinctly remember several times where I was talking so much gibberish over eggs benedict that my daughter suggested we drop by urgent care for an MRI. But I was fine. It wasn’t a stroke. It was just menopause. I’d look at picture of me in the good old days. Whip smart and efficient. Kicking ass and taking names later. And just quack away. Fuck-fuck-fuck (thank you Louise Penny).

It's hard to say exactly when I entirely lost my mojo but I know it started drabbling away in 2020 when my much needed hip replacement got denied denied denied. Got denied so long that I was walking bone on bone which shortened my leg and turned my foot perpendicular. I humped and dragged my foot and tended bar at a golf course through the dregs of COVID. I lived alone in a canned ham camper in the winery hills of Yamhill. It was the loneliest time of my life. I cried always and forever. No one cared, not even me.

But I can only quack and cry for so long until I get sick of my shit. Luckily I finally got my new hip and with my small savings rented a place on the goonies beach for two months. Every day I swam at the community center and walked for hours rehabbing my hip (sure) but mostly my heart. One day I stooped to pick up dog shit and the Pacific whomped me. Sucked away my walking sticks, the bag of shit, and my Carhartt beanie. My breath. My Prius keys. Almost me. King tides. January freeze. Salt in my ears nose and throat. I limped two miles back without my sticks and felt just a little bit of that badassery. Thank you mother earth. You relentless beautiful beeeesh.

After that I drove cross country from Cannon Beach to Asheville NC and somewhere in Wyoming I found my bobble head Jesus and my cowgirl swagger. It was the hotels with crooked neon signs. Men with axle grease fingers. Weather faces vaned with wind and sand. Truckers eating blueberry pancakes. That one good Daddy memory. Whipped cream and bacon in a roadside diner. Mini jukeboxes playing Tanya Tucker. Truck stop showers you could take for fifty cents. Driving the Mac Truck down I-83. I was 14. Scared shitless and free.

So yes Virginia, you can get your mojo back. And no Virginia you can never have too much of a good thing. So I’ll leave you with this. When Helene hit us I had the good fortune to rescue a little girl from the Swannanoa River. Little little D. Anyways a couple of weeks ago I was talking to one of the big wigs where I work about the whole hurricane situation and I mentioned it. Just kind of matter of fact it came up—shooting the shit-like. He was old school and easy to talk to. But for some reason I was kinda like back pedaling aw shucks pshaw about it. Like little old me about it. Humble bumble pride cometh before the fall type of bullshit about it.

And he asks for another shot of Casamigos and roars you must be damned proud of yourself. If that was me I’d be telling everyone about it! Are you telling everyone about it? Damn Girl! New Yorker! Rolling Stone! Washington Post! This old rich dude kindly telling me what men love to do but where women (I) (sometimes) fear to tread. Quack quack quack. Fuck fuck fuck.

So here we are insufferably full of chutzpah. So here we are sassy and gorgeous and free. So here we are loving me. Loving you.

And of course I can’t have an old dude have the last word in my story so here is the queen of Chutzpah. Maya Angelou. It never never gets old.

And Still I Rise—Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.