I'm learning from today's Washington Post that I'm a "Mortgage Mom" and this
year's "Security Mom" or "Soccer Mom." You need me to win your district.
I hold the baby and the purse strings, and the power to withhold sex
from the breadwinner if he doesn't vote my way.
After an informal poll of my circle of friends, we've agreed that you
can have our vote if you take care of a few concerns in our lives.
First, it would be swell if my electric bill wasn't $700. Sure the
elections will come when it's the heating bill I'm bitching about, but
stay with me here. A $700 electric bill means my hard working husband
will be on my ass to save those pennies. Sure, my son will ask "what's a
penny?" but you still remember, right? So that means I can't get the
organic produce, the brand name cranberry juice, or the super kids block
of cable channels. It also means I can't have my usual morning venti,
non fat, soy latte. That pisses me off. I'm not sure you understand how
important that latte can be after a night of sick kids, dosed with over
the counter medicines that I'm now told don't really work, yet still
seem to be bought and sold like crack on an inner city corner. And if I
don't have that latte, I can't sit in front of my television and fast
forward through commercials with my TIVO, thus forcing me to BUY an Ab
Lounger that my fat Capri wearing ass and I will never use.
Second, it's a pain to drive to the "across suburbia" gas station for
the $3 gas instead of the $4 station with the fast food joint next door.
So if you could do something about those gas prices, my kids can get
their burgers with candy laden yogurt and soda while I kill two birds
with one stone.
The higher gas prices also mean my husband had to buy a hybrid for his
hour and a half commute. Sure, it saves us some money, but the car
seats, dog, and toys just don't fit in there as well as they do the
SUV. And it doesn't have the DVD player, which means there is NO WAY
we're taking it anywhere.
Third, the Moms and I would like bigger houses. My girlfriend Jane can't
sell her bungalow and she's expecting her third little bundle of joy,
because three is the new two point five. What is she going to do? Have
her kids share a room and wear hand me downs? Come on, they will be
teased right out of their Christian private school. Plus, a bigger house
would mean I can finally get that Pottery Barn dining room set.
Oh, wait. The gals and I just had an emergency pow-wow via cell phone.
Scrap all those above ideas. We'd much rather you stop sending our
brothers, husbands and sons off to roadside bomb deaths. That'd be
great. See you in November.
