Lifestyle Blogging

Cary Randolph Can’t Do Adulthood Well

Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I took a short break from GOMIBLOG and almost missed some more word vomit from our very own Scary Mandolph:

Recently: standing at the kitchen counter, attempting to peel a hardboiled egg. The white kept coming off with the shell until there was hardly any left, and I stood there, pissed off, late, a million things to do, thinking, “How am I going to do this when I’m a mom?” That’s the question I ask whenever these mundane tasks don’t come easy, like removing an egg shell in one deft maneuver, the flat side of the thumb, the way my dad does it over the sink. He makes it look simple, but it’s not so simple. It’s a craft. And I worry that in ten, fifteen years, when there’s a passel of children pulling on my skirt hem, rolling their sippy cups across the linoleum, screaming for their breakfast, how will I breeze through the mindless bullshit without losing my mind? Example: opening a can of soup over the sink without losing the grip of the can in the opener and dropping the can and spilling all the soup? Or laundry? Loads and loads of laundry? Or hauling groceries into a car and a child in a car seat at the same time in the rain, and the hubby’s on the phone, “What’s for dinner, darling?” How does anyone do that? (I can see my mother now, reading this, saying aloud to her iPad screen, “For God’s sake, Cary, stop THINKING so much.”)

Christ on sale, what the shit is that about? I’ve peeled hard boiled eggs and even used manual can openers for years and I’m not even a (omg) mother. Also, how do you even manage to “peel” an egg and end up taking off the white too? Is she whacking at the thing with a steak knife? All that aside, I don’t know why Mandolph even thinks she’ll have to do any of this stuff once she marries the Kennedy-Vanderbilt-Guinness-Mortimer-de’ Medici-bank account of her dreams. Rich people have servants to do this stuff. I’m no WASP, but I just assume daddy’s too busy banging younger women and mommy’s too busy drinking to care about actually using *gasp* kitchen appliances.

Honestly this looks like something Poundcake would write, and once you’ve hit that level there’s really not much hope. It’s normal for someone to be nervous about raising a child, but don’t eggs and can openers seem like really minor worries? I can’t wait until people stop treating every single aspect of their lives, no matter how insignificant or annoying, as The Link that Binds Us All Together as Humans or something like that.