EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” HMc

Good Help Is
Hard To Find
Epistolary lament from a knocked-up
Goddess entering her second trimester
by Heidi McBride-Pedrazzetti


B. —

Strange development over the weekend —My hands are numb all the time. They don’t work so good either. Keyboarding is a challenge. Not real bad pain just uncomfortable. I’m going to the doc on Thursday to discuss the “options” —Like can I get full disability? I hate to be even suggest that I am looking for a free ride, but what is a girl to do? It’s either that or figure out a way to exploit the illegal alien labor market arriving in droves from south of the border.

Have I mentioned we rent our basement out to such a trabajadoro (I’m not sure of the spelling but you get the idea)? If the septic tank can take it I’m gonna stuff that basement with young Mexican men and watch the cash flow in. It may ruin my political career (harboring illegals and all) but if I can get some women who will provide certain services I could “make out” in that endeavor too. …I’ve always loved the title “Madame” —The garage will be a little dance hall. There is a huge market up here. Way more men than women when spring hits. And monogamy isn’t really a big priority in that macho culture. All the women apparently wait to see what new disease their honey will bring home come winter. But, of course, if I was running the “house” everybody would have regular check-ups and we would use condoms etc. I’d get a nurse on staff.

Excuse my ravings. I hope I don’t sound like some right wing lunatic —or left wing nut case. It’s just that two class system that gets so glaring, when the weather gets nice, and we need cheap labor, that makes me crazy. Not much consideration is given to where they will live (or shit for that matter). Who is influencing my subconscious? It’s not Ziggy* that’s for sure.

I’ll stay in touch,

— H.

*Obscure Reference Revealed!
Seinfeld–Season 9: “The Cartoon” Elaine sees a comic in the New Yorker magazine and ponders its meeting. Everyone she meets pretends to get the joke of the comic but she just can’t. Finally she confronts one man who tells her he doesn’t get it either. Elaine is determined to get her own cartoon in the New Yorker. She gets a cartoon published but later her boss J Peterman notices that it is an old Ziggy cartoon, because he’d “recognize that irreverent Ziggy wit anywhere!” It appears that an old cartoon had entered Elaine’s subconscious (her boyfriend Putty has a set of Ziggy bedsheets) and she recreated it without even knowing it...