I believe the housewives are plotting their revolt.

I've recently moved. Gasp! I officially "Live" in Seattle. It's a decent place and I like it just fine, though I have an issue.


There is a Marie Callender's Restaurant four blocks away. Every time I see it, I have these visions flashing through my mind, projecting onto my eyes.
Sometimes it causes me to hit pedestrians, they don't count as real people-so it's fine...

Anyway. So, I've been there. I'm not made of stone, people!!! They have food, that is just... well... fine! Don't worry loyal readers, this isn't becoming a food column. Promise. It's a nice enough place with it's, We Really Are a Restaurant and Not an Analogous-Sheri's-or-Denny's!, thing... Though I have to say... what the fuck does the kitchen look like?



This is Marie Callender's! They sell boxes of food to supermarkets! It's the staple of angst-ridden suburban housewife. This was the day dream that usually crosses into my field of vision, causing me to hit that homeless guy (at least he looked homeless) the other week...



I imagine a kitchen, with upwards of fifteen microwaves and fifteen toaster ovens. Eight, somewhat well dressed, women mill about the stainless steal and decorative tile back-splash workspace, white-knuckling their disappointment and ire at their life of deferred dreams and bitter consequences.

These women, displeased housewives, are found leaning against the counters with a glass of red wine in their hands probably from a box, bitching about their husbands.

"Sarah, why are YOU angry?! Greg at least brought home 75K last year and got a new company car, what did my Henry get? A pair of movie tickets and a bought of Gonorrhea from that slut secretary at his firm!"
These women would continue to rant and rave about their lives by laying into their brat children and their continued disobedience by associating with those "Poor" kids at school.
"Johnny keeps on -associating- with that McPhearson boy from the other side of the Well-Fair Line. I took away his TV and his car for two weeks and he STILL disobeys me!" Molly Smith snears as she swirls her wine, one arm crossed beneath her ample and slightly lopsided bosom God-and the kind folks at McNease, McNease & Fontleroy Cosmetic Surgery Center-blessed her with.
"He says it's not right to judge people based on their family's income and birth. I tell him it's not right for a boy of seventeen to still go to dance recitals and to spend so much time on the American Idol website." She takes a long drag of her wine and looks poignantly at the woman across the table from her. "...Might grow up...funny." She finishes with a waffle of her hand like a dying bird.


Near the end of their shift, of drinking the finest red wine found in a two gallon jug, these women maybe begin reminiscing of their days as captains of their respective Cheer Leading squads in high school. They bemoan the loss of the high school bodies that 'could have been in movies.
The rants and raves begin to sound like a cry for forgiveness as they speak, each one deaf to the others, and woe the salad-days of youth and beauty, and then their ire turns back to their current (or first) husbands.

Each one yells at the woman across from her, how they settled for that son-of-a-bitch undergrad, right before Rush Week as a Freshman, and got pregnant, and had to stay home because they were embarrassed to be seen on the Quad as big as a bison. They never graduated. Never bettered themselves by themselves. Never got their Masters in English or their Masters in Business...


"My parents never gave me the family business, and now I'm stuck in this suburbanite HELL!" Crying as if stabbed in her heart, Samantha hurls her glass of wine at one of the droning microwaves. The women fall silent.
Each woman has just been shamed by her own fate. She chose it, she was the instrument of her own downfall. They realize their life fell apart, like the broken bits of Sammy's wine glass, because of each of their decisions. Molly drains the rest of the wine from the jug, looks at the empty and discarded box, and gives a tittering laugh.

"But Henry let me hire a new pool boy! He's one of Johnny's friends from camp he went to last summer. He's not as cute, but he fills out the speedo better than Raul did, though so far he's not even looked in my direction. He'll learn. But I just wish John-John will stop offering to drive him home after he's done, he only LIVES three blocks down, why does it take him two HOURS to get back home?" Molly finishes her recently filled glass and gives a tiny, hiccuping burp behind her hand. Giggling she blushes.

"Anyway, the pool boy is coming over on Sunday to make sure the new pump is working right. I think we need to have a brunch while he works. Don't forget to bring your bathing suits!"

As the eight ladies gather their frauda-bags, and cheek kiss their goodbyes, each one is dreading the ride home. Alone with her thoughts, to return to her life, as the woman she never wanted to be, a woman she would have hated to become when she was younger. But the pills are about to kick in, and this odd feeling of rage and sadness will soon be just another Zoloft-coated crumb in the pit of their stomach.

.... So what I'm trying to say is.. well... I'm happy with my new place, and I need someone to start a task-force to keep the homeless from 1st and 107th, because I'm not partially hiding another body!

That's all.