I’m on strike and nobody has noticed! I feel like the pianist in an a-cappella choir or the designated seamstress in a nudist camp. I’m not cleaning, driving, cooking, washing, or working and nobody cares! A strike worked for the lady in the newspaper; she gained adoration from her family after her walkout! How? What am I doing wrong? I’m unsuccessful because no one notices.
It will take a couple of weeks for the family to really care that the bathrooms aren’t clean (since that’s not an aberration.) I suspect that it will be two more weeks before they get sick of fast food and another two weeks before they miss swimming, piano and tae-kwan-do practice. (Most likely, never.)
I don’t think this is going to work. I have a job that doesn’t need to be done. I wonder if the secret of a successful strike is that a person must be a necessary commodity. The youngest child is adept at fixing his own peanut butter sandwich—even cutting the bread.
To: wipeitup@swim.out
The neighbors are amazed that the three-year-old fixes his own lunch. He goes to the freezer, pulls a corn dog, pops the wrapper, runs to the microwave, pushes the open button, flings the food over his head into the back of the microwave, slams the door and presses go. He grabs catsup out of the fridge and voila! Dinner is served.
It’s sick and wrong I know, but at least it’s tofu and fat free.
A successful strike must have at least two affected parties, at least one of them who cares, who suffers, or in lieu of that, can get media coverage. Who can I call and what can be their news angle? I need a new angle because there is really nothing new or sensational about another mother who is tired of being unappreciated.
What if I spice the story up by eating something that’s been growing in my refrigerator for months, or maybe I could bungie-jump over the river of laundry. What if I slap, cuss, curse and pull the top off my vacuum? I’m a housewife desperate in true reality.[1]
[1] The media will love it.
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