I remember when I was in high school driving home late one night with a friend. A deer had been hit by a car and was still trying to stand up to take off but was unable to despite its best delusional adrenaline-filled efforts. So my friend turned the truck around, pulled over, took a knife out and slit its throat. We drove off and that was that. I understood what was happening as I was taught the same way. This is why when a few of our turkeys flew over the fence around their pen and into the main property where the dogs were…I grabbed a shovel and finished the one I knew would not recover from our dogs’ damage. I then took it to the trampoline, plucked it, dissected it, explored the organs, and finally boiled it to see what it would taste like. It tasted like shit. This was how I learned that fear and trauma cause damage to our physical bodies and also when I realized I was interested in becoming a mortician or a medical examiner. I spent an entire company Christmas party chatting up a mortician while Styx performed for our private venue (romance is not dead, he probably wished he was though). I was ready, but just like the other 767 jobs I have been interested in, I did not follow through or even attempt to pursue them. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. The car hit the deer, the dogs chewed on the turkeys, and someone was there to put the consequences to an end. This is not always the case, sometimes there is no out other than getting through it.

I woke up this morning while dreaming I was inside a chipped salad bowl floating on top of my stomach. There was still some salad inside and lots of ranch dressing, so I knew damn well it was not my salad. The bowl also had some sails and began moving around as I held hands with girlfriends and danced to “Do Somethin’” by Britney Spears. I finally woke up when my mind realized I was giggling and saying “Why don’t you do sumfinggggg” a little too joyously and that I needed to be up because I actually had something to do. The plumber came over shortly after I woke, I offered him some coffee but no conversation this morning. Nice dude. Most dudes are cool with not chatting. Some are even thankful. Of course, in my mind, I was like ughhhhh I probably should say something but I did not. I let the hour pass by, sipped my coffee out of my poop emoji coffee cup that says “Oh!” On the inside and just kept thinking “Yeah, Britt, oh shit is right” as the silence grew louder and I could hear him grunting and self-affirming that he was doing a good job. This was another moment when there was no choice other than to get through it. He is a nice and cool dude, but no one is worth jumping out of a sailing-chipped salad bowl, turning off the music, and starting your morning. As a result, I was not about to budge on conversation. Britt the brat.

Shortly after, the boys and I sat down and discussed how college acceptance works…I painted a visual for them. Imagine you and all of your cool buddies standing around, talking shit, laughing, walking tall, and still pushing your hair off your face (insert eye roll). You all are so excited about going to college and decide you want to go together since y’all have known each other since preschool and secretly all of us moms want this as well because we want to travel together to visit y’all…anyway. You find out you can’t go because you fucked off too many days and did not take me seriously about bringing your science grade up. So you don’t get into the same college as they do, but I still visit them because I want to travel with their moms aka my friends…is this what you want? One has all A’s and the other has just one B+ so I explained how if he rocked the final he could bring it up to an A…no pressure though! Well, he did, and then we laughed our asses off about how I explain everything so intensely that they usually laugh and say “mommmmmmmmm” as I push through my laughter to finish what I am saying because I know they are right but I am happily aware of my ridiculousness. My eyes try hard to lock in and relay the seriousness my personality is struggling to convey. Look. I get the job done without having to be so fucking serious, and that is how I like to live. I will get the job done but I want to laugh while I am doing it. For the record, I did not laugh while killing the turkey with a shovel, but I did when my brother took a go at it and let out a scream before, during, and after each time he made contact with its neck. This is how I ended up with the shovel. Sometimes the job needs to be done, and you cannot ask someone else to do it for you.