Yesterday I was happy to skip out on chocolate and candy hearts, because secretly, my family rocks, and Gusman gets the cold hard cash on Valentine’s Day. No better way to tell me you love me than with a ten dollar bill, bitches. Ten from Gramma Jett, and ten from Aunt Juanita, straight to the Asian Hooker Fund, an old Clorox wipes container that mom cut a crooked slit in and then duct-taped the lid shut. (The irony of this ghetto-ass piggy bank is that I probably have enough money in there to buy 100 real piggy banks.) And if the parental unit half-jokes one more time that they are cleaning out the Hooker Fund for our trip to Cabo next month, I’m going to take a dump on the front porch steps–in front of the hip, young neighbors across the street. You can’t just take a man’s hard-earned cash to pay for your afternoon tab at the swim-up bar. Mom. This is gross misconduct.
To celebrate V-Day, mommy said we were going on an adventure, which equated to a lame-assed trip to Target. I had to walk the whole time while Rat Baby sat in the plushy cart seat-cover eating turkey chunks and Pirate’s Booty. I pretended to enjoy throwing cans of Spaghettios in the cart to appease the old bag because I was trying to work a piece of gum out of her, but secretly, no man likes to grocery shop. Especially with his mother and kid sister. Plus, mommy has gotten really good at pulling out the items I sneak in the cart, like donuts, dog treats, or random bottles of salad dressing. In the end, I didn’t get any gum, but I did get fifteen minutes in the play area. And when mommy said it was time to go because I kept cutting in front of the babies on the slide, I gave her a big, Valentine’s day treat: a full-blown Gusman tantrum, with a complete list of -ings to boot (kicking, screaming, biting, pinching, hitting, mean mommy!-ing, etc.). She had to pull me by one leg out of the hollowed-out log while I tried to kick her in the face. Before she nerd-tossed me into the back of the Target cart, she calmly informed me that if her back went out because of that little episode she was going to sell me on eBay to the lowest bidder. I think she was pissed. She is always the angriest when she is calm. And she holds her chin up just ever-so-slightly and walks around with her eyebrows a little bit raised. Don’t fuck with mommy when she looks like this.
Needless to say, I had to spend the whole ride home with my nose up her ass. I told her how fun the mall was in a happy, sing-songy voice and then I sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star three times to a fussy Leona. Then I asked mommy to be my Valentine and told her how tired I was and could I take a nap when we get home? This all worked very well. So easy, the old bag. Marinades her grudges in alcohol so they just get all hazy and eventually they go away. It’s no fun, really. I could use more of a challenge. I did end up fighting her on the nap, though, even though I said I was tired. After I did not comply with the pre-nap go-potty request, she forcibly pulled my pants down, pushed me into the bathroom, pointed at the toilet and venom-hissed, PEE. NOW. I did not appreciate her tone, so I smugly decided not to lift the seat up. As I started to flow, she lurched at me from the doorway, crazy-eyed, and flipped up the seat with lightning speed. She damn near severed my penis. Put the seat up when you pee, dammit! she cried. Hey! You almost got my penis, mommy! I rebuffed. She did not respond, as she was busy pulling Clorox wipes from underneath the sink. I mused outloud that the dribbles of urine that had gotten on the seat were now dripping slowly down the underside of the seat, kind of in a circle. Fascinating was her flat and cynical response. You guys wonder where I get it from. Then she told me my nap better last a very, long time.
When she tucked me in, we had the formal make-up conversation.
Mommy: You know, I really don’t like it when I have to be Mean Mommy.
Me: I don’t like it either. You almost got my penis. That would hurt very bad.
Mommy: Well, you know not to pee on the seat. It’s gross.
Me: Well, you know you shouldn’t be Mean Mommy all the time.
Mommy: I’m not Mean Mommy all the time. Only when you’re naughty.
Me: Just don’t get my penis.
Mommy: I will never get your penis, I promise.
It was as much of a make-up as we were gonna get. My mommy, my Valentine, Protector of My Penis, was drinking wine before I woke up, and all priors from the day were floating down a river of chardonnay.