Anyone who knows me knows that whilst waxing wane over a proper mulled orange and filthy cherry old fashioned—I love to tall tale regale with my single mama stories.
How I bartended at night while taking overload credits at Juniata College. How I got on and stayed on the deans list. How I bartended on a broken ankle. How I walked to work uphill in snow when my little VW broke down. How I got into grad school and wrote my master’s thesis in two months. How I had three teeth pulled because I couldn’t afford to get the root canals and worked with bloody holes in my gums.
How I was fit as a fiddle because I was (can you believe this shit?) doing Body for Life meal prep (six days a week) and hitting the weights five days a week between Russian Lit and German 101. My back and bi’s were ripped. My thighs rippled. I smoked Marlboro Reds and drank a lot of Folgers. My hands shook but I got shit done.
When I say I never got a break—I never got a fucking break. My ex was in law school in Florida and we were in rural PA for my college scholarship. There was no every other weekend kids with Dad. It was all me—all the time.
And I was fucking killing it. I was Navy seals Demi Moore buzz cut—push up—pull up—kick ass kind of Sigourney Weaver type of bad bitch.
Put it like this. I was David Goggins with the merry christmas mother fucker attitude. You could throw me anything and I could life hack the shit out of it. Overdue electric bill? Shoots and Ladders mother fucker. Essay on Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn? Check mate mother fucker. Critical analysis of The Bluest Eye. Swings dick. Passes GO. Merry Christmas mother fucker.
If you don’t know Goggins. He’s a wingnut navy seal who runs ultra marathons on broken toes.
Goals.
My my my how the mighty have fallen.
Yesterday they changed the way I ring up complimentary guest drinks at work and my brain seized up. Blink blink blink. No comprende. No sprechen sie deutsch. My manager goes do it this way—and does it the new way. Boop-boop-boop. Me. Blank stare. Panic button. The paper bag is wet and I can’t fight my way out of it.
In my defense they made what once was an efficient one step type of thing into a 12 step process because—accountants. Never—never have a bean counter manage a bar—just like you would never have a Tik Tok-er build a high rise with ass pix. Point is. I used up every good brain cell in the 90s. I am swiss cheese. My brain weeps giant Jesus tears.
I listen to Goggin’s on my morning poop walks with Two Bit. Try to rev myself up. “Greatness pulls mediocrity into the mud". Yeah mother fucker. I get it. I get it.
My name is mud and my time management skills are shit. Bitch I used to drop Patrick at football. Run Erin cross town to soccer. And then in between the chauffeuring I’d trail run Itchy and Dallas and then study from the car with my slobbery Basset Hound woofing and walloping in the back seat. When we got home there was a crockpot of savory chicken or roast bubbling that I’d food prepped at 5 am.
Now. I have one job and one dog which I’ve been juggling kind of ok. Honestly kind of MID. Honestly there are days where I resent him. Walks. Plays. Ugh. I mean I do it. But I begrudge the time sap. Still and all with this high maintenance black lab, I mostly even manage to write every day. Unless I’m sick. Which I was for two weeks.
And bitch where was that broken ankle bad ass? Oh I was laid the fuck out. I actually took off two days of work. Two days? Christ almighty. To hear me go on about it. I was AIDS in the 80s. I was Steve Job’s pancreatic cancer. (sorry buddy but I’m pretty sure if you were alive you’d be up there Oligarching with the rest of the beta-alphas).
It was a cold. The flu. Yeah. It wasn’t even COVID. Or pneumonia.
Hands over Goggins card. Takes a nap.
And now this week I’m dog sitting my grand-pup (Kuma) while Erin is in London on business. Two dogs? Jesus. I mean. I’m a hot mess. What once took me an hour is now all of the morning time. Yesterday I was tangled up in leashes and annoyed and sweaty. Why am I always sweaty?
Well back up—it took me fucking 45 minutes to get out the door. I packed a backpack with chuckit balls, treats and a long leash. Pepper spray in case wild wolves attack us downtown. What? Jesus. Wipes also in case we step in homeless shit. In my defense—that does happen. My iPad. Pens and pencils. A wad of twenty dollar bills. Looking back on it now—it’s hard to unpack my logic.
How did I once efficiently do diaper bags? And after all of the packing and planning I forgot the biodegradable poop bags. So for two miles tangled in two dog leashes I had to fake pick up poop because my dogs only poop when someone is watching. And someone is always watching. Standing ovations. Paws were clapped. We bowed. Curtsied.
And then on top of it (why?) I added a daily 12 minute wall pilates workout to my day. Aaaaand I was five minutes late to work. Breathing heavily. Titty sweats. Why am I always sweating? Hair like a frazzle rock mop top. Why is my hair always shit? I need a personal assistant just to function. Five days in with two dogs and I’ve got half a loaf of gluten free bread, coffee, and wine. No food to even prep. Because where is the grocery store time?
Merry Christmas mother fuckers. It took me 32 hours to write this. I wrote a 420 page thesis in two months. What. Is. Happening?
No longer am I a high IQ bad ass. I am now Christina Aguilera asking where the Cannes film festival is held. Or Arnold Schwarzenegger saying gay marriage should be between a man and a woman.
If there was a walker for my brain I’d buy it. If google could translate my gibberish I’d use it.
I honestly don’t even. Can’t even. Pshhhh.
And on top of all of this shit I’m having an existential crisis. I’ve discovered that I’ve gone off of men. Like how I went off of chicken and beef when I was pregnant with Erin. And how I went off of eggs and lavender when I was carrying Patrick. I just went off them. Didn’t want them. Waved off plates. Smells. GAG ME WITH A SPOON.
So now I’m asking everyone I know. Am I gay? My boss—you could be. I know I am. Yeah you could be. I mean why wouldn’t you be? I exhaust her. I know it. I apologize. She waves me off. I’m pretty sure she’s gone off of me going off of men. It’s a mess. I’m a mess.
My daughter—I always thought so but you fucked a lot of men. So. There’s that. I’d say you’re more bi-sexual. Hey. Mom. I’m in London can we figure this out later? Yeah. Sure.
Did the flu take my sense of male like it did the smells in 2020? I mean was it COVID? Because now I’m wondering.
Anywho. I would say more but I have to walk the dogs and buy groceries. And for some fucked reason I’m out of toilet paper and my Prius is broken. So I may or may not make it into work today.
I’ve hopped on your chaotic train of thought and don’t want to get off! Just as I was going to check you’re ok, Rebecca, you come back with this. Wonderful. But of course I hope you’re back to just the one dog soon. It’s all too much, quite agree!
And, yet, you write this absofuckinglutely brilliant piece of 21st century Bombeck that has me in belly laughter tears of relatability. Love ya, Bec. 4444