Mules and Wooden Baby Lambs

Today marks the two-week countdown until we go to Cabo.  Mommy is stressed, and now that she isn’t smoking cigarettes or drinking during the week for lent, the whole family is forced to feel her pain.  She is moody, distracted, and emotional.  She is freaked out that me and Leona will be kidnapped in Mexico and end up as drug mules or child prostitutes.  Officially, my image of licking the salt off mommy or daddy’s margaritas while getting a massage on the beach is warped, replaced with visions of mean, sweaty, sombrero-donning Mexicans who drive white vans full of puppies and jelly beans.  Some vacation.  Let’s just go back to the fucking flea market two blocks down the street and buy me another scooter.  Sounds like more fun than popping laxatives and shitting heroin until my sixteenth birthday.  Anyway, as a result of being distracted, mommy blew up three of Leona’s bottles in the microwave this week.  By the third one, she was outrightly dropping f-bombs and muttering about having to clean the microwave for the third time and I thought maybe if she wasn’t nuking bottles like she’s supposed to, they wouldn’t be exploding in the fucking microwave, but who am I to call her out on her lazier parenting practices?

In other news, my baby sister will be one year old in a couple of weeks.  We are having her birthday party on Sunday.  I hate this shit.  Birthday parties for other people suck ass, especially when “other people” are the annoying second addition to your family.  I don’t get why the Gusman can’t have a birthday party once a month.  Cake and presents are like my religion, and now I am going to have to watch my baby sister blow out candles and get a face-wash with some delicious chocolate frosting and open pretty packages and gift cards to Target while I am told to sit back and keep my hands to myself, and that’s not for you! and no, you can’t have any cake until later!  Absolutely none of this sits well with me.  I don’t know.  Maybe I should just hitch a ride to Mexico early.  Who’s headed south of the border?  I have a passport and a high tolerance for beans and all things spicy.  Also, I’m pretty sure mommy drank a lot of tequila once upon a time when those boobies belonged to the Gusman, and so my margarita tolerance is likely to be up there as well.  I don’t know.  The bottom line is, I hate sharing.  The limelight, presents, cake, you name it.  And so I’m dreading the big numero uno for Leona like a root canal.  Mommy says to me don’t worry, it will be your special day soon enough, and I’m like, August 15th is NOT soon enough, buy me a fucking pony to tide me over, bitch.  Well, I don’t actually say this, because the asshole parental unit is reaaaally cracking down on the back talk, but I am thinking it.  Just like she thinks she would like to take me into the attic and tie me up for a couple of hours sometimes.

On a lighter note, yesterday was a pretty fun day.  When mommy got up with her usual Sunday morning hangover, daddy took me on my new scooter for a tooter around the ‘hood.  He rode his skateboard and we went down all the driveway hills we could find.  I bit it like 34 times but I didn’t cry once.  Daddy also took a nice digger and he didn’t cry either!  I was so proud of him.  Then we went to Philip’s house and I played with Gobbler the pug, and then we all went to Aqui so mommy and daddy could have margaritas.  After my nap we all went for another walk in the ‘hood: me, mommy, Brisket, Leona and daddy.  It was fun.  The highlight, however, was after bath time.  Me and mommy and Leona were playing on my bedroom floor.  Leona took this little wooden lamb she got as a present when she was born and clocked me in the face with it.  That.  Shit.  Hurt.  I gave her an immediate verbal lashing:  Leona!  You don’t HIT!  That’s not very NICE!  You don’t DO THAT!  And the little bitch sat there with a goofy-assed grin on her face like she thought the whole thing was hysterical.  And then I hear mommy giggling from behind me.  Assholes!  Mommy said she was sorry, but she couldn’t help it.  I am sure she was both punch-drunk and chardonnay-drunk, but it was no excuse for her to laugh at my pain and encourage Rat Baby to hit me with small, wooden objects.  However, Gusman always gets the last laugh.  Less than a minute later, Leona crawled over to mommy with that wooden lamb and dotted her right in the lip.  And she dotted her hard.  Mommy started bleeding and within moments she had a nice, fat lip.  Dammit, Leona, that HURT! she spat angrily, examining her mouth in the mirror.  Well.  What can I say?  Karma is more of a bitch than mommy, if any of you can believe it.

Okay, time for some peanut butter toast and orange slices.  Then I am going to go help Leona get on the couch so maybe she can fall off of it and crack her head on the fireplace hearth.  That’ll teach her to have a fucking birthday party on Sunday.


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