Bridge Over Seven Decades: Musings of a Mad Housewife

by Kerrin Ross Monahan

California Girls: Artwork by Charlotte Huntley
When you have six kids in ten years you tend to miss the nuances, the fine points of what’s going on.  For instance, you’re busy doing nothing sitting in the gas crunch and because you had a personalized plate (vanity) you could only get in the long lines at seven a.m. with a screaming infant or two, on odd days only.    

I followed Patty Hearst as little as possible, and Watergate was hard to miss.  Boring.  So have a nice day and I’d like to punch out that little round yellow face.  You can tell who’s stuck way back there when they still say that to you.

Forget the lava lamps and mood rings—I didn’t need a ring to figure out what state I was in.  Beanbag chairs were tacky so was avocado anything, especially shag.  Down vests and trail mix were okay, I guess, but if I see another macramé plant hanger interspersed with wooden beads it’ll be too soon. No, I was of aqua fondue pots and terrariums in a cool green Almaden gallon jug.  And Hang Ten and decoupage and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, not Rod McKuen and his ridiculous dog.

Love Story was never having to see sap acting again* and who cares about streaking because I saw plenty of little bare bottoms everyday. Bicentennial and an ice skater’s coif satin jackets. Bare Trap sandals that’s what I saw along with five million in paperback sales: bodice rippers.      

Vietnam then was whacked out Vets committing suicide it was more interesting to see all those Italians killing each other on the screen after they cooked the best spaghetti to die for.  Throwing up Campbell’s pea green soup—I’d rather watch kid Spielberg’s two million dollar nuts and bolts come after you in the steel tank at Universal.    

Tonsils and tonsils and stepping over zonked out freaks on Telegraph, dragging a five year old to the throat doctor and loud discos in convention hotels filled with mid-life plaid polyester.  Irishmen don’t look good in all white and besides they don’t like gold chains.

Parochial plaid and Sister Said cupcake sale and Lip Smackers whoever dreamt that up was a genius just add strawberry (red dye #5) to Vaseline and hang it from a cord for the premenstrual set.

Going from one disaster at home to another give me a dime for every time the milk hit the fan and I’ll show you an operation to rival Dreyer’s.  The upside down leviathan and flames in the Big Guinea and the psycho with the life insurance out of a machine was nothing.      

Take back the Italian horn I get enough virility thanks and leave your Puka shells behind with the tooled leather belt embossed colored flowers and cannabis bronze buckle.     

Keep on truckin’ away from me because I’m waiting for the carpenters it’s only just begun between the pet rocks and pop rocks and it’s all over with the flaming Pintos.
Burn your bellbottoms and chuck the turquoise and silver squash blossom ‘cause the baby just signed his ass over to Uncle Sam, the same ass that was pampered once upon a time.

Say goodnight Mary Ellen, stay high yellow brick road—gotta do-run-run.
 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.