It’s a sad, sad day in the Mermod home. Gramma Mic tucked me in last night, and was out the door by 4:30 a.m. this morning. I woke up and asked mommy if I could go cuddle with her, and mommy sniffled at me that she went back to Michigan. Poor mommy. She really is a train wreck when Gramma leaves. After getting me my milk and settling in to snuggle with me on the couch some time later, mommy kissed me on the forehead and told me she loved me, and then she sort of pleaded with me to be a good boy today because she was very sad and she didn’t want to have to be Mean Mommy. I took her face in my hands, kissed her on the cheek, told her I loved her, and said, okay, I will be a good boy today, mommy. I promise. We can be friends alllll day. Secretly, my mind was already racing with terror plots. It’s actually somewhat insulting that mommy would stoop so low as to beg me with this sort of tearful, pathetic desperation to behave. Since when do I just do whatever the fuck she asks me to? Umm, since never. So, grab a Kleenex and turn that frown upside down, hag–time to earn some parental respect this bright and early morning.
What better way to break mommy down than to tag team it with Rat Baby? Leona has been making some serious strides in the little prick department, and I’ve got to hand it to her–we are only weeks away from a major power shift in the day-time household. She even pisses me off sometimes. First of all, she eats like a fucking hippopotamus. She hammers her own breakfast before I’ve had three bites of mine, and before I know it, mommy is pulling forkfuls of eggs off my plate and plopping them down on that little heifer’s tray. If mommy brings me a snack in the afternoon and puts it on the coffee table, Leona cockroach-crawls over to the table in less than three seconds, pulls herself up, reaches for my plate, and does that annoying whimper-sniff that tells me she is either going to get some of my food or she is going to scream. This realllly bothers me. I just don’t like it when she hovers over my food. Frankly, I don’t even like it when she eyeballs it from twenty feet across the room. She’s like a creepy little meerkat, all standing tall with her head cocked in a queer way in the direction of my grub. Fucking makes me nutty. I guess this aversion goes along with the whole I-don’t-like-it-when-Leona-starts-crawling-down-the-hallway-when-I’m-pooping thing. We all have our quirks.
The point is, Leona is proving herself a worthy adversary, only now, she isn’t just my adversary. Mommy exudes much negative energy on her. Time-outs are just around the corner for the Rat Princess. Last night, she pulled a whole box of open brown rice out of the cupboard and emptied it on the floor. That was pretty awesome. Mommy muttered something about child-proofing, but I reckon Leona will be able to get knocked up by the time mommy gets around to actually child-proofing. She is either too cheap or too lazy or too stupid to ever do it. I imagine it’s a lethal combination of the three. Leona has pulled that same box of rice out of the cupboard fifty times, and I’m not shitting you. Get a fucking clue, mommy dearest. Rat Baby is also throwing mild tantrums. Mommy will refuse her the booby and Leona will whine and flail both arms on the couch over and over again. We laugh at her. It’s good to laugh at some other punk for a change. I mean, I crack myself up, but sometimes it’s good to be in the hag’s good graces for a quick moment.
So, to frazzle mommy, I got Leona to knock over all the candles in the fireplace. Mommy was sitting on the couch in her best depressed slouch, zoning in on her phone. Probably asking for everyone’s pity on Facebook, because boo-hoo, Gramma Mic left. We were threatened no less than ten times to stop playing in the fireplace. Finally, Lazy Ass got off the couch and removed both of us from the sooty, cobweb-infested shit-square that is our fireplace and feigned some sternness. Next, we made our way into the kitchen, where, behind the pit bull’s bed sits a nice, new, indoor plant that stands about four feet tall on top of an empty wine rack. (The wine rack is stocked with mommy’s checkbooks and other random paperwork as opposed to actual bottles of wine because, well, you figure it out.) The dirt inside the pot was moist from a thorough watering yesterday, and the two of us proceeded to tribal paint one another’s faces with potting soil for a full four minutes before mom heard Leona giggling from her slouch in the living room. Little bitch ruined it, because I was in what I knew was a well-deserved time-out moments later, and Leona had been banished to her high chair with no food. At this point, I saw the anguish in mommy’s eyes. She looked at the clock–7:36 a.m.–and I’m pretty sure I saw her fingering the pack of smokes in her robe pocket that she’d brought in from the rain outside earlier. It is moments like these that I almost pity her. It’s like she’s not even a contender on days like this. She just waits around for noon, and then she feels so guilty about wanting to crack a bottle of wine open then that she forces herself to wait until 2 p.m., and let me tell you, all of us would be better served if she just dealt with the guilt. I don’t know. I don’t get it. Maybe someday, I will want to smoke cigarettes before The Price is Right is on, and have cocktails with my eggs and toast just because my hag mother got on a fucking airplane back to her swamp, but I have to admit, I’m skeptical. Empathy escapes me in this moment. So she’s just gonna have to deal and pop some happy pills to get her through the day.
On another note, I got the hand, foot and mouth disease. Incubation period: 6 days. Gusman gets it on DAY 7. That’s what I call total fucking bullshit. The fever came one day after The Fungus Among Us post. Mom said that’s karma. I say Karma sounds like a hot chick from Tibet who wants to karm-on over to may place and nurse me back to health. Holllla.
Peace out, y’all. I’m gonna go kick Uncle Nate’s ass in a pillow fight.