When we were kids, my mom would periodically lose patience with all of us and go on strike. In her defense, she worked a demanding full time job and would come home at night and take care of us, including making dinner every night. I don't recall take-out ever being an option. She had piles of laundry that she'd do on Saturdays and she did the grocery shopping until we learned to drive and discovered the joy of bag-boys.
My most vivid memory of this was that she was cooking in the kitchen, all the while hollering that she was going to go on strike. Now, I'm not entirely familiar with the details of going on strike, but I'm pretty sure that you're supposed to leave the ruthless dictators in a lurch rather than finish up your task. Finishing cooking dinner is like teachers going on strike all summer long.
She'll tell the story of the time that she ate in the kitchen while the rest of us ate at the table, trying to prove the fact that she was a servant to us. Not sure it worked, because I don't remember that one.
We laugh about it now. Even she laughs about it now. But there are days when I feel like going on strike.