The Beast Invades

H E L P M E.

It’s happened. It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with a cruel twist. You better sit down.

Sunday morning, my daughter TG donned a cute top that was nevertheless wrinkly. I remarked as much, and she said, in the harried and desperate way that only young mothers of three rambunctious rugrats can, “I know." When I gave her my WTF-you're-wearing-it-anyway? look, she added, "Did you want to iron it for me?”

Iron? Aaaaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha! I speet on thees archaic beast called the iron. It does not contain push buttons which engage any “do it FOR me” tasks. There is no “GO” button. It does not give me immediate access to friends and family. It does not make my life easier, quicker, better. It does not make me feel in touch with my inner spiritual giant, it does not make me want to dance, and it doesn’t provide even a smidgeon of instant gratification. No, this beast is the equivalent of manual labor. I know. I can't even believe those two words came out of my mouth. I am not about manual anything--not unless it comes with batteries and three speeds.

And yet . . . as my eyes glazed over with sucralose shades of my Mommy Life Past, this foreign word oozed out of my mouth like putrid slime: “Ye-e-e-e-s-s-s-s.”

TG had that shirt over her head and in my face in .000523 seconds flat. “Thanks, Mom.”

And there I was all retro-maternal, wrinkled shirt in hand, heading dazedly downstairs to find the beast and its wobbly metal counterpart on stilts. I’m surprised that in my stupor I didn’t trip and fall, head over heels in a viral spin-out, and sprain my wrist so as to have a convenient excuse for not making good on my offer. Alas, I was THAT overcome and confused with myself. Plus, I couldn’t even remember where I last saw the beast. Didn’t we throw the last one out with the eight-tracks?

Here’s the part that will just make you want to curl into the fetal position, people. After I dutifully ironed my daughter’s quite lovely blouse (notice how it was transformed from an ordinary top), I—I can hardly say it—I got excited at how easily domesticity took shape inside me and then the aliens took over my body completely. It was as if I'd turned into Martha Fucking Stewart! And then . . . and then? I hurried to my closet and pulled out five blouses that I have been wearing with that right-out-of-the-dryer look. And then? I ironed them!!

OMFG! I have been beast-slapped. And all because of Martha, Martha, Martha! Bitch! People, this matter is pressing! What should I do?

Oh, ew. I feel like I've been body-spritzed with starch. Plus, I can't wear those blouses now because . . . they'll get wrinkled!
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An Unholy Dalliance

Don't go trying to change me. Whoever you are, it's not safe. Others before you have corralled me in the kitchen, finessed me into getting dirty in the garden, and coerced me into coordinating the carpet with the drapes. But in the end, they walked away exasperated and confounded, shaking their heads impotently. Let that be a lesson: No unholy dalliances with domesticity for this princess.

I admit, when pressed, I am an ass, digging my hooves into the ground and tugging in the opposite direction. There's just no reasoning with me when my inner ass rears her, um, head. So whoever you are, I see through you. You're cranking up the heat on me, all the way to eleven, but let me tell you, your efforts to domesticate me are daring and despicable—diabolical even—but dumb.

You see, I am a goddess, but not of the crafty persuasion. Just because you've signed me up for Martha Stewart Living, and just because I've now received two of her propaganda rags in my mailbox, don't think I'm going to be all, “Oh, I can’t wait to grow my own rutabagas.” I don’t even know what those are. You’ll never catch me perfecting a soufflé, a mousse, or a ganache. I mean, that just sounds like something you can transmit. Sorry about that nasty case of ganache, dude. And papier-mâché? Even I know that’s French for chewed-up paper. My sudden concern for hygiene prevents me from touching that.

Oh, Martha, Martha, Martha. How could you let a mystery crusader use you like that? Or perhaps, with your checkered past, you are in on it. OR, could this crusader be someone even more dastardly? Like . . .

Mom? MOM?

[Cue Psycho music.]

Holy herb garden, Batman! Who else could supply my home address for a shipping label? And frankly, who else has so much to gain by my domestic conversion? She loves it when I get all up into her crafty homemaker shit. Oh, Mother, how could you?

Know this, Mama Salla. Those dastardly pink roses on the cover of March and those impressively painted, but sinister, April Easter eggs will not break my resolve to be woefully inadequate!

____________________

P.S. Seriously. Who signed me up for this? Mr. Ex-Boyfriend?

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