Mom on Strike

It’s that time of year, I guess.

It seems like every year, this time, something in my family falls apart. The kids quit picking up after themselves, they look at me as if I speak Greek, blatantly disobey me and some sort of Spring bickering settles in. Inevitably, after several days of their disrespect for everything and having exhausted all usual corrective measures, Mom goes on strike.

It usually also involves a degree of Dad not pitching in as well, being too consumed with work or other civic duties, or not. All of a sudden, I find myself barely able to keep up with my load, and I refuse to pick up the load for the 3 lazy bodies who have seemed to check into their own little worlds.

Typically, I can step over a thing or two. I have a sane threshold for temporarily unkept things. A pair of shoes or a pile of toys can sit for 3 days, hell, even a week before I get my panties in a wad. Spring hasn’t busied them with sports, or anything of the sort. The messes accumulate into unbearable proportions while they sit on their lily-white asses. The honey-do list swells with miscellaneous fix-its. The kids fail to acknowledge the importance of hygiene, let alone punctuality. They can’t seem to get out the door with combed hair, weather appropriate clothes and all their stuff. Every minute as a household manager becomes a horrible struggle. They’ve done okay in the past with all this. Why trouble now? Why every year? The last two years  Mom on Strike was in it’s infancy. This year, the mere mention of it to my husband made him quiver and launched him steadfast into preventative action.

So what happens when Mom goes on strike? Mom decides to get caught up on that book she never quite finished. Ditto on the paintings and unfinished poetry. She goes into her bedroom and turns up her music so as to drown out the ensuing insanity and crank up the pleasure while she reads and writes. She sits gleefully in the backyard and watches birdies perch on the fence. She leaves Dad with the brood and goes to the coffeehouse for tea. She retreats to the bathroom and gives herself a much needed pedicure.

If you can’t beat’m, join’m.

Published in: on March 21, 2010 at 7:09 pm  Comments (3)  

Stuff it

Some rag doll I am

tossed around

drug through mud

and not because

I am the doll

that is your most beloved.

A simple hug

would be

the most befitting dress,

but, no,

a curse becomes

the banal habit

to this hushed nun

you used to sing I was your sun.

To be mean

you pull my string,

but it is not the one

that makes me talk-

how painful,

I’m unraveling!

I’ll mend the tears

in all my seams

and stuff it

till the soiled polyfill

is regurgitating.

go see some awesome dolls
Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 11:07 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: , , ,

The Windmill of my Mind

My chamber

dry and still


for the beta breath

the tender cilia-

such fields of grain


that gentle wave


And when it comes

alive with motion;

churning the turbine,

acumen firing

and sputtering

at the start,

the rust shall fall

from the leaden layers and

the thrusting pistons;

then I will rise!


Each whirling contraption

humming along

basted with the living grease,

corroded circuits arcing the gap,

no matter how great the leap,

for there is no greater honor

than to empower the unliving thing

and suscitate that which was made

but never used.

Published in: on March 9, 2010 at 11:04 pm  Comments (4)  
Tags: , , , , ,

Snapshot Conversation

“I knew a woman once who was so clueless. She gave her cat a zen garden thinking it would find peace. That is just wrong on so many levels.”

“What crazy person buys stuff like that for their cat anyways? Cat people are such nutjobs.”

“Yeah, well this lady was one for sure. She didn’t quite think it through.”

“Well, I guess the cat didn’t need a rake.”

“No. He did find his own kind of peace, though. It made a great litterbox!”

“Haha. Maybe the cat has the right idea. We should learn from this wise creature.”

Published in: on March 5, 2010 at 11:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,
%d bloggers like this: