The Nuclear Mom Option
By: Ann Brown
Fuck, it’s been a hard week.
I don’t know about you, but I am consumed with vitriol. And simply changing my Facebook profile photo to Sally Field as Norma Rae holding up the UNION sign isn’t taking the edge off of my anger. Or my hunger, for that matter. I hold Scott Walker and the Wisconsin Republicans responsible for my three-pound weight gain in the past two days. Let my stomach be on their heads. Remember my battle cry: We Shall Overcome; But First, We Shall Overeat.
You know the feeling you have when you are wearing jeans all day that are too tight? And at some point in the day you forget that it’s your tight jeans that are making you uncomfortable and bitchy, and you just settle into a shitty mood? And instead of the usual mirth and merriment you spread everywhere you go, you give babies dirty looks when their parents aren’t watching and you pinch old people right before they step off the curb? You know that feeling?
That’s what Wisconsin has done to me. Oh, also my jeans are too tight. Only even when I finally take them off at night I still want to bitch slap a Republican.
My fantasy is that Scott Walker will come to me in dire need of some service that only I can offer and I will send him packing. I will stand at my front door and hiss, “BEGONE!” And I will spit three times and swing a chicken or something to make sure he knows how pissed off I am at him. And he will totally have a moral epiphany and see things my way.
I have no idea what kind of skills and talents I possess that he might need but that part can be filled in later. Maybe he wants some parenting advice, or my killer recipe for eggplant guacamole. Perhaps he needs a lesson in conversational Yiddish. YES. That would be perfect because no matter what I did – shut the door in his stupid face, or send my mom over to his house for a Yiddish lesson – he’d be fucked. Totally. Send Mom over there.
First thing, she’d tell him his house is too cold. And that’s why he gets sick so often.
Then she’d take all the dirty dishes out of his dishwasher and wash them by hand because then the dishwasher would be “nice and empty and ready for the next time.”
And does he want to do something about those liver spots on his hands? No? Really? He is okay with having them? Because she will pay for the dermatologist.
She will watch him make dinner and make helpful suggestions such as letting him know that he wastes all the asparagus the way he trims the stems, and that a piece of tin foil can be used up to four bazillion times before washing it with Clorox and using it again. She will also wear six sweaters and ask if she can put the electric tea kettle down her pants since no one wants to turn up the thermostat.
By nightfall, he’d cave. She’d have him singing all the verses to UNION MAID. In Yiddish.