BAG and Big Daddy, Plus Dearest Muz: Even Though We Ain’t Got Money

Broke-Ass and Big Daddy may got bubkes, but they do have schmushkies and love. And chickens:

Broke-Ass swears recipes are coming. Really. But right now she’s in LA, where she spent last night stress-puking at a Marriott in Marina del Rey, and this morning in a parking lot via the open door of a rental car. So, the thought of writing about chick peas and olive oil are causing her to feel rawther less than peckish at the moment.

The saving grace of the moment is that Dearest Muz is here with her. Broke-Ass is SO grateful that her Dearest Muz is here with her. “Grateful” is not the word. “Flat-out, weepily moved beyond reason” are the words. Dearest Muz knew that her daughter was on a trip with a lot riding on it–a lot financially and psychologically riding on it–so in a gesture of unexpected tender motherliness, Dearest Muz booked a ticket and hotel room so that she could fly the hell out here and chaperone her terrified daughter.

When Broke-Ass was crying and bent over the hotel toilet last night after her Big Business Day, Dearest Muz was right there, holding a cold towel on her forehead and saying the kinds of soothing things that would calm the retching soul and upper GI tract of her kiddo. She made her chamomile tea and tucked her in. Broke-Ass is almost 43; Dearest Muz is almost 74. They are still daughter and mother when it counts most.

Broke-Ass often fails to recognize Dearest Muz and Perfect Stepfather in these pages. To be clear, she’d have actually plunged headlong into the abyss without their unyielding compassion and financial back-up, though they can ill afford either. To be further clear, not everyone gets to have parents like this. Broke-Ass is damn lucky.

Right now, Dearest Muz and Broke-Ass are doing what they’ve done together their entire lives. Half-watching a crime show on TV and reading stuff like Thomas Merton and John Milton. In spite of feeling like shit, and having suffered a major letdown today–and in spite of being on the opposite coast from her schmushkies–Broke-Ass feels completely at home and happy.

Sometimes you just need to be with your mom.


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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