the destroyer > cheap papers > Meagan Lehr

ROSEANNE, MY RADIATING MIDWIFE

In these last weeks of pregnancy I have my boob-tube mother, Roseanne, in mind. I feel my largesse fatigue and stretching skin and what I want is to lay in bed and start from the beginning (last pregnancy it was Cheers). Was she really grunge before grunge? A tough mother bitch in the face of? Or is it a sister? Am I enlightened? Grossed out? Or identifying with her now, in these last days pre-DOMEstic-goddess-ranks-forever—




Long has she been milk for academics who project a working-class, media-feminist argument onto her grotesque figure. Before she was a comic she was a mother. George Clooney is her young boss at the plastics factory in those early episodes. He only gives her half an hour off when she needs an hour, and it's coming out of her pay.

Between watching Episode 2, "We're in the Money" and going to the bathroom, I read that the last radium girl has died—Mae Keane, she was 107. Her whole jaw didn't fall out, her face and limbs didn't become outgrowths of bone cancer—a grotesque working girl shape—she survived because she quit the grit. 5 cents a watch, exploited life for a lick.




The US Radium Corp blamed it on syphilis. These working gals, devoid of a typical contained feminine, gutsy and faulty. Their labor for a whistle on the line, lip pointing in skirted rows. Their kiss a nuclear blue or green, ringing bulge-eyed bells for the jazz age, no diseased worklady's comp at that point. Twelve numbers per watch, upwards of 200 watches per day — and with every digit, the girls swallowed a little bit of radium.




SUBMISSION is the name of the perfume Roseanne wants so badly. An extra 50 dollars goes far to supply the dreams of a DOMEstic goddess—Dan wants a captain's bell for his boat. You know the fastest way to a man's heart, don't you? Yeah. Through his chest. Boy did that get a laugh out of the audience. The working class wifemother's subjection to submission by a counter clerk. Your feminity underscores the scent of grotesqe the clerk reads into your life. Treat yourself why don't you.

A few people have told me that my laugh sounds like Roseanne's. Roseanne reminds me of the women in my family and our bone structures seem similar. Square jowl, cafeteria arms, nasal raduim. [Roseanne's] body epitomizes the grotesque body of Bakhtin, the body which exaggerates its processes, its bulges and orficies, rather than concelaing them as the monumental, static 'classical' body does. Implicit in Bakhtin's analysis is the privileging of the female body—above all the maternal body which, through pregnancy and childbirth, participates uniquely in the carnivalesque drama of inside-out and outside-in, death-in-life and life-in death.




Roseanne and Madonna grabbing crotches, working to break down the pop-lip pointing standard. Flashing radium light, glowing in the tube. These gals got comped for entertaining labor: a laugh, a fart, a song. The fine grotesque, baby: a laugh, a fart, a song. Ghosts in the boob-tube—thank goddness, DOMEestic goddess, for YouTube. Thanks for litigation late-coming, at least at all.




As I prepare for labor, to become a grotesque figure, there are ways to submit. Yes: pain, danger, body blown out, fear, joy, shit, the wild stuff, the poison stuff, maternal worker stuff, luminescent like radium from the core of us. My hypno-drama-binge-watch-mantra-rerun-reading-of-rights-meditation-tweet, where is THEREALROSEANNE now?


The Devil is feeling this one. He has a glimmer of awareness today. He opens his
mind, uncleanches his heart, and feels his own hot breath.
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