Any flair, pageantry, or little daily treat that boosts your dopamine levels, even if by a scintilla, is probably the cuntiest of them all.
There’s something so deliciously sinister and suburban about an easy interstate commute, relishing in the privilege that bridges the heat blasting on my feet tucked in new creamy leather Vince boots and brief, scalding sips of coffee from the snazzy new travel mug Stephen smartly gifted me for Christmas. I was always a “sip, savor, and shit at home” type of person before I could even muster up the will to start my day, spending a full hour in my robe before braving the cold, damp, piss-sodden trenches of the 8th Street MFL station. Can you blame me for being a few days short of a fortnight from 35 and craving the simple (dare I say well-earned) comforts of a warm car whose wretched interior I finally cleaned after 4 years of owning it?
Don’t let a salty Pennsylvanian get in your ear: New Jersey is beautiful and so is the fat orange sun that rapidly blinds my field of vision as I cross the Betsy Ross. Do I think I’m better than you because I’m at work and caffeinated by 7:30, inbox tended to by 8, fast broken by 9:30, and out the door and home before the less fat, less orange sun has given up on those so-yesterday nine-to-fivers? No, but I’m better than previous me. Those other Jersey plates joining me on Route 90, however, are competition. Sure, their Waze is set to “Work” like mine (for the traffic conditions only of course – us champions of the daylight know our way), but have they customized their drive with a cunty Kim Cattrall voice, both minimally navigating and heavily spouting smarmy Capricorn-specific mantras?
I’m one of those cringey two-phone people now who says stuff like “Oh, let me check the EMAILS on my WORK phone real quick.” I’ve never used an iPhone and so, naturally, it made sense to steepen the learning curve by using it for business. I keep that one in my cupholder during drives and then operate it like a Boomer when forced to actually use it: eyes squinted, arms extended, index fingers jamming, long distance diagonal swipes.
I’m in dangerous territory, being within driving distance to all manner of *retail*. My personal Android phone I clip in a windshield mount, even for the half mile drives or so to the nearest strip malls during lunch (let it be known they are in ABUNDANCE this side of the Delaware). The Kim Cattrall impersonator will get me to, say, the Bahama Breeze in Cherry Hill for curbside pickup because I was craving the iconic “girl lunch” combination of salad, fries, and some type of fruity lemonade hybrid the shade of any color featured in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, but not without the attitude of your standard, stick-up-their-ass Capricorn such as myself.
“Hello, Capricorn. Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of intense? No? Well, let’s drive.”
“Keep left. And keep your criticisms to a minimum.”
“Hazard reported ahead. Hmm, this wasn’t part of our five-year plan.”
“Turn left. What’s wrong, are you in a mood?”
“Keep right. Don’t look at me, I’m just giving you directions!”
“Exit right. And exit all scenarios with lazy people, you’re better than them.”
I could mute her voice or even shut off Waze entirely (I have, after all, driven several times over to, took stock of the offerings of, and subsequently rated by preference every Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Shoprite, and Wegman’s in Burlington and Camden Counties), but she’s a woman after my own heart. My morning isn’t complete without her quips and a big heaving sigh of contented relief – relief I’m finally freed from SEPTA’s shackles – when I reach the freeway’s end on the Jersey side and suddenly get lost in an antithetical reverie about living in the modest, working class home on the swamp to my right that has a single strand of bulb lights hanging from a massive tree on the water at the edge of its property, all A Midsummer Night’s Dream of it beckoning me in the early morning lavender-tinged sky for the simplicity of a cold beer on a tire swing.
It’s so opposite of cunty.
“Cunty” being my absolute favorite word that I plucked from the lexicon of the youth, tried on for size, and decided I’m not too old for it. Cunty can be anything you find on the spectrum between ardent rule-breaking and steadfast cult-following: baroque, whipsmart, sassy, decadent, indulgent, boundary-setting, joy-seeking; and, above all else, bold in its, well, cuntiness. I can’t explain it. If you know, you know.
The brand new massive Stanley Cup dangling from my manicured fingertip that’s also holding keys and an insulated Corkcicle lunchbox, with its crispy water and clean lines and plasticky edges? That’s cunty.
Sashaying into COSTCO with a freshly printed membership card, red on white, colors that mean I’m reaping the benefits of capitalism, and filling my minivan-sized cart with an 18-pack of D batteries for our automatic trash can, just because? That’s cunty to excess.
The Zodiac Kim Cattrall possessing my Waze that asks right before I set off to drive in the mornings, “Can I get you anything, Capricorn? Maybe some prune juice, the ability to relax?” – she’s the mother of all things cunty.
My 2016 Ford Fiesta is NOT cunty, but the choice to light the interior Eagles Green (if they’re doing well) or red for Christmas is. So is the single house in Broomall that actually decorated with lights and projected The Grinch on its siding for the neighborhood to view on tailgating chairs, hands grasping thermoses of hot chocolate and desperate holiday cheer, even though gone are the days of a blustery, wintery December. That house, in all its earnestness, is cunty.
Any flair, pageantry, or little daily treat that boosts your dopamine levels, even if by a scintilla, is probably the cuntiest of them all. Even when you can’t feel the magic of Christmas, so you force it, and it still doesn’t feel right, it still feels like any other day, that’s when the little treats matter the most.
As my therapist says, you acknowledge it, and you move on.
Saving money is very much not cunty. So what I paid more in delivery and service charges than the cost of the tissues and gatorade I got from GoPuff? So what if I put more money in Bezos’ pocket when I ordered Robitussin and Dayquil for Prime next-day delivery because we both contracted COVID for the first time? (COVID, the ultimate indicator you are both everyone and no one. The virus herself is cunty, the way she unabashedly entered the room and stayed long past her welcome. Me, blowing my nose in the shower, not so cunty).
I justify it by telling myself “it’s for the convenience.” It’s for the convenience of not having to wait for a bus or a subway that never comes. It’s for the convenience of not wanting to infect people by walking the block to Rite Aid. It’s for the convenience of gracefully exiting the “18 to 35” age bracket you see on surveys and, hence, less willing to put in the bodily work and mental gymnastics required to maintain our persona as those cool DINKS in the city we once were.
2024 will be the cuntiest year of them all. We want to buy a house, maybe even a condo. One with a dishwasher and in-unit laundry and parking and outdoor space. We want to book a trip to Vegas just to see The Sphere from a swanky hotel window, all that’s wrong with this country. A goddamn ORB! And we’ll pay to fucking see it. I’ll keep my work phone on deck, just in case.
Yesterday, I drove by that house on the swamp, as I always do. There’s no more lights strung from the tree.
I acknowledge it, and I move on.
© 2023 Andrea Festa
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