The Nomadic Beat: Cult of Mom

First Posted: June 8th, 2011

Now, before I delve into my latest theory, I feel the need to divulge some background info.

I grew up in Prague, Oklahoma (“Pruh-egg” according to Okie dialect, capiche?).

I spent the awkwardness of my youth helping my dad around the farm. Under the blistering summer sun, I would look up from my garden hoe, and ask if I could get a drink of water. He often replied, “Drink your own spit.”

Couple that humility with a bizarre small town environment, where all gossip courses through the collective mind of the community.

Even the comatose octogenarian in the nursing home knows when a local teenage girl frets over a late period.

The men of the town gather at the bakery, which seconds as a coffee shop. They play dominoes ferociously, survive on a diet of chicken-fried steaks, and love to demonstrate their dedication to American-made vehicles.

A respectable woman of Prague attends church regularly, knits, reads the newspaper, and maintains a browbeating knowledge of local broadcast news.

 

Into Suburban Frying Pan

 

Given my quaint upbringing, strolling into Edmond gives me a keen sense of contrast. The suburban men may be sharky, smooth-talkers, but their wives strike a more sinister chord.

Edmond moms age like photographs—their color distorts and mellows into a warm yellow, but their middle years are hosed daily with a plastic vanity and biting perfume.

They travel in caravans of SUVs and tether knees to steering wheels, left hands to lipstick vials, right hands to cell phones, and hide wandering eyes behind gargantuan sunglasses.

If gas guzzler lies vacant, odds lean toward them cruising down the aisles of Target (Wal-Mart is a breeding ground of low culture).

My stomach turns at the sight of them, and if their eyes ever meet mine, I’m left shuffling like an insect-ridden chimpanzee—behind a zoo cage of unkempt facial hair and thrift store fashion.

The mass-produced Edmond mom image frightens me most.

Many would argue middle-aged suburban moms to be a mere symptom of a hedonistic nation.

Poppycock!

 

Flirting With the Occult

 

Edmond moms have tapped into the occult, not Cosmo. This eerie Cult of Mom is responsible for more than perpetually walking with noses 12 stories high.

There is a rumor rolling about that the peculiar light pollution hovering over Edmond is nothing more than a Cult of Mom’s ritualistic bonfire. Edmond ranks as the 10th safest city over 75,000 because suburban moms curdle the blood of hood rat and gangster alike.

Whether their skin is actually bulletproof from the leathering of tanning beds or they keep wolves at bay with simple false superiority, one thing stands certain: I will never have the courage to actually converse with a member of the Cult of Mom.

 

Comments

  1. Posted by Garett Fisbeck on June 8th, 2011, 23:29

    “Edmond moms age like photographs—their color distorts and mellows into a warm yellow, but their middle years are hosed daily with a plastic vanity and biting perfume.”

    Poetry…. Jazz.

  2. Posted by Garett Fisbeck on June 8th, 2011, 23:28

    Jazz.