Shot Glasses and Pilates in the Afternoon

The other night, mommy was tucking me into her bed with daddy so I could cuddle with him for a while before I went to my own bed.  We like to have this man time together so mommy can sneak off into the living room and drink with the Real Housewives of Who the Fuck Ever.  Often, I will ask for a drink of water at this time.  Mommy said sure, and went to the bathroom to get me some agua.  She came out with a plastic, pink shot glass that donned the words Bitchin’ Bachelorette in black lettering.  It was like half an ounce of water.  What the fuck was this?  After looking at her with my You’re a Weird Bitch face, she told me that she was sick of me pissing in her bed all the time so I was going to have to drink out of a littler cup at night.  A.K.A. a shot glass.  Anyone else find this inappropriate?  I just thought I would share for those of you keeping track of The Things That Make My Mother Unfit.  And by the way, I have only peed in her bed twice this week.  I don’t see what the big deal is.   It’s hard to fit a keg of urine inside an absorbent thimble without a little leakage every now and then.

I have been fighting my naps again because I know this is the time of the afternoon mommy does Pilates in her room and I very much enjoy doing them with her, mainly because I know how irritating it is for her to share her yoga mat with me and my stuffed Curious George.  Yesterday, after a two-hour stance against the afternoon nap, mommy finally huffed from her bedroom floor that she didn’t care if I got up.  I was instantly geeked to work out with her.  I took off my shirt and propped George up ever so carefully at the end of the yoga mat.

George needs to get off my mat, Gus, mommy said flatly.  She was pretty pissy that I was going to rain on her Pilates parade.

But George wants to work out too! I cried.

George is a fricking stuffed animal and if you don’t get him off my mat I’m going to stick him in the freezer for the rest of the day.  This was a very mean thing to say, because mommy knows how concerned I am about keeping all my stuffed animals warm and snuggly under cozy blankies most of the time.  To save George from a stint with the frozen peas, I placed him under mommy’s comforter on her bed and proceeded to lay down on the floor with mommy.  We did a lot of sit ups, some push-ups, some leg lifts….you know, basic Pilates shit.  Mommy was huffing and puffing and breathing hard.  I told her how easy I though this was.  She grunted a guttural good for you.  She was concentrating very hard on leg circles.  I asked her for a snack.  She said no.  I pretended to breathe really hard like she was and I asked her if I was doing it right.  She told me to stop talking.  I said, this is really fun, mommy!  in a super-duper excited voice.  She looked at me with her dagger eyes without moving her head so as not to mess up her form.  Then I farted and blamed it on her.  At this point, she got up, paused the D.V.D. player and threatened to put me back in my room for a nap because I was making it hard for her to concentrate and she could hurt herself if she didn’t concentrate.  I though about telling her that if she didn’t drink so much, she wouldn’t have that problem spot on the backs of her thighs and she wouldn’t have to do Pilates so much and neglect her son.  And while we’re on the topic of hurting ourselves, let’s talk about that liver?  But I didn’t think this would get me anywhere.  So I agreed to be quiet.  She turned the D.V.D. back on and got into form for her teasers.  Four seconds later, Leona started crying from her room.  Mommy dropped an eff-bomb, and that was the end of our work out.  I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

In two days, I will go to school.  It’s only for a month, three days a week, from 9 a.m. until noon.  I cannot WAIT to scope out all the new mommy’s that I might choose to adopt me. I am going to choose one without an alcohol bloat.  And one who doesn’t have rancid garlic breath most days of her life.  Then, when mommy comes to pick me up, I am going to scream that she is not my mother, that I am being kidnapped.  If this doesn’t work, I am going to demand someone give her a breathalyzer.  One way or another, this is going to be my way out.  I will send for Leona after.  I’ve kind of gotten attached to The Rat.  Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.

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