Two days ago, I got home from hanging at auntie Jamie’s house with Sienna, and mommy and daddy were verrrry excited to show me something in the back yard. Come here, buddy! You want to see something sooo cool? Immediately, my mind sought out the potential–incredible, cool, backyard things like an industrial-sized slurpee machine, a swimming pool full of popcorn and M&Ms, an Asian brothel, a carousel of live ponies, a Tyrannosaurus Rex–you know, actual cool things. I walked out there with bated breath, my eyes wide like frisbees with wonderment, my mouth half-open and ready to squeal in delight. When they both pointed out the large, L-shaped structure pushed up against the house where the BBQ used to be, I wasn’t even sure what it was to be honest, but I’ll tell you right now it wasn’t a fucking T-Rex. I looked at it, then at mom, then at it again, then at daddy, and I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders. It’s our new bar! cried mommy. Whatta ya think, bubba? gushed daddy. What do I think? Seriously? They wanted an honest answer? Well, what I think is now that mommy has a bar in our backyard fully equipped with a mini-fridge and four bar stools, cirrhosis is inevitable. What I think is where the fuck am I supposed to ride my bike? What I think is there are going to be a lot of days this summer when mommy can’t help but look longingly at the bar while she is doing yard work, and surely, she will open a beer at 10:30 a.m. because she’s “thirsty from pulling weeds.” What I think is Leona will be pole-dancing with the umbrella pole on top of the patio table regularly because mommy will be too drunk to chaperone. What I think is my parents are fucking retarded for thinking I would give two shits that we have a bar in our backyard. I would almost rather the cool new thing in our backyard be a new baby brother, but, like, an outdoor one. One that just lives in the backyard all the time and doesn’t come in at night.
The upside here is that while yes, my parents will be splitting child-rearing shifts in the evening to hit up an A.A. meeting by, say, August at the latest, the new bar is grounds for parties. I like parties. Parties usually entail bottomless bowls of junk food, late bedtimes, extra sugar, and oh, people who actually want to play with me. Yesterday, Uncle Nate and Hot Hallie and Sean came over for a bar-Christening BBQ. Good times were had by all, especially daddy, who just got off a month of antibiotics and, consequently, sobriety. Mommy kept calling him “special” all night, so I was waiting for the cake, because usually special people get a cake at parties, but all they did was open more bottles of wine. Lame. But I got to snuggle with Hallie before bed, and we did some serious pillow-talking. She asked me about my dreams–as in, what do I like to dream about at night–and I gave her some bullshit about fruit snacks and unicorns, but let’s just say that was the extremely G-rated version of what I was dreaming of in that moment. Yeaaahhhhh. She was a good tucker-inner, if you know what I mean. So, kudos to the new bar I suppose because my mom’s hot friends get to practically sleep over after a day of eating and drinking, and that is A-okay with the Gusman.
In other news, today was the first day I didn’t get one, single, time-out at school. Busted for hitting two different kids last time, I had to be on my best behavior today. A play-date with cousin Sienna depended on it. When mommy came in to get me, I announced loudly that I didn’t have any time-outs today! Nada, zilch, zippo! I used my best outdoor voice to make this declaration. She threw me a fake smile and said great job, buddy, I can hardly believe it in a tone that sounded to me like shut-the-fuck-up-about-your-excessive-time-outs-in-front-of-all-these-parents, and that was sort of the icing on the cake. You know what? One day, she will just own the fact that I’m a dick and she won’t try to hide it from other people. What. A waste. Of energy. I might be troublesome on occasion, but there are a lot of perks to being the mother of the Gusman. I am a great snuggler. I am very tough. I love to shoot stuff with anything that I can turn into a weapon with my mind. I can belch on cue. I know how to talk to Leona better than mommy does, and let’s just say she’s going to be looking into foster homes sooner than later as well. I eat the shit out of broccoli, and I know that EVERY mother wants a son who eats the shit out of broccoli. I know how to effectively use sarcasm. I’m a good kisser. I like it when people hit me in the face with a pillow. (This is a major plus in the Mermod home.) You see, mom, I’m a shit, but I’m just a fucking loveable shit. Stop fighting it.
Alright, it’s time to humor mommy and “go play outside.” This translates to me throwing mud rocks at Leona in the side-yard while mommy sips a chardonnay at her new bar with a stupid buzzed smile on her face and warm, fuzzy thoughts of how blessed she is to have two amazing children, a wonderful husband, her youthful figure, this beautiful home with an outdoor bar, and a drinking problem. Whatever. Bottoms up, madre.