I’ve been in kindergarten for three weeks now so I pretty much get the drill. School is freaking awesome. And it smells good. Unlike preschool, everybody in my class is potty trained so there’s not that lingering scent of poo wafting through the air. Yep, I’ve hit the big time.

What’s starting to reek is my mom’s daily after-school interrogations.

When I went to preschool she was pretty chill. She’d pick me up. I’d show her the 500 pieces of art I did that day and we were all good. Since kindergarten she bombards me with a zillion questions:

Do you have homework?  Did you eat all your lunch? Did you play with [fill in the blank with any random girl she met for 2 seconds during drop off] she seems like a nice girl. Do you like your teacher? What did you learn today? Do I look fat in these jeans?  Did you remember to bring home your sweater? What musical instrument do you think you’d like to play? Was your sweater warm enough? Who’s your best friend in class? Who did you eat your snack with? Who did you eat your lunch with? Who did you play with at recess?

AHHHH! MAKE IT STOP!! MY EARS ARE BLEEDING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look mom,  I don’t have time to be mentally waterboarded with your relentless B.S. I have a Turtle Race activity homework worksheet I have to bust through. Seriously it’s not like I ask her everyday how her dead end job is going. (I know the answer, anyway. It SUUUCKS.)

Her main concern, it seems, is that I’ve made friends at my new school. Which of course I have. You spend the day with 25  people exactly your same age and you’re bound to hang with someone. I’m beginning to think  my mom’s the one who doesn’t have any friends.

Take my birthday party schedule for example. Each month I’m invited to roughly 1,200 birthday parties. Every time I show up to one of my pal’s soirees she tags along. What the hell?!  She’s already there– because she drove,  so I use her for a lift home too — but holy sh*t doesn’t she have any friends her own age?! The worst is, at the end of the party, when I catch her rooting though one of my goodie bags for extra candy. Man, that woman can put it away. Hey, mom, I’ve got a question for you, “Should I start saving my pennies for your inevitable lap band surgery?

 

notes

On the left, my very well-crafted and polite note to the tooth fairy. On the right, her bullshit response.

Last night the Teeth Buy Back program I’ve been participating in for the last couple years didn’t go as planned — And NOT because I only got 5 lousy bucks for a big front tooth instead of $20 like that 3rd grader,  Josselyn claimed.  No, it was because the Tooth Fairy didn’t even have the courtesy to wake me up as I requested so I could talk to her. [See note above] Apparently she was too busy to meet with a client who has consistently supplied her with pearly whites for the past 2 years. She’s like a tooth-junkie, always after her next fix. Am I the only kid who has Lindsey Lohan as their tooth fairy?!

I don’t know what the big deal would have been– it would’ve been a quick conversation. I just wanted to ask her a few questions like: Why are all the notes she leaves written on the same paper and glitter glue we have in my art box? And why are the envelopes sprayed with what smells like my mother’s perfume?  And finally,  why doesn’t she look into another line of work that doesn’t involve skulking people’s houses at night collecting dead things that fall out of kid’s mouths? Yuck.

The truth is,  I think some weird sh*t is going on — either some diminutive fairy is stealing my art supplies and my mom’s perfume  OR someone from inside the house is f*cking with my head. I will keep you posted.

Capture

Only one day old and she’s already embarrassing me..if I had the ability to roll my eyes I would have.

(NOTE: I recently turned seven but I haven’t had time to change my website design… 2nd grade is BRUTAL. I have to write a 3 sentence book report EVERY FREAKING WEEK. )

You think Miley Cyrus’ twerking at the VMA’s or Syria’s behavior is embarrassing?  Then you haven’t seen my mom when she cranks up her 80’s music, gleefully exclaims “Lily, THIS is the Ramones!”– as if she’s teaching me the fundamental nuances of baroque classical music– and then proceeds to gyrate around the room exposing her industrial Spanx every time she twirls. No blurred lines here…it’s 100% disturbing.

What does your mom do that embarrasses the shit out of you?

6 Reasons I’m NOT a Sh*tty Kid

Posted: September 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

What’s with this new trend of parents celebrating the fact that they’re sh*tty parents? It’s so out of hand there’s even a new book out called Sh*tty Mom (which just hit the New York Times bestseller list.) Look, I don’t need a book to tell me what I already know: Half of you are phoning it in. I’m not. When it comes to being a kid, I’ve got this thing nailed. Here’s just a small sampling of my stellar skill set:

1) I delight you with my unyielding belief in Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy no matter how many times you eff it up by asking me, “I forget, what did we buy you last year for Christmas?” …and most recently “How much are the other parents giving your friends for a tooth?” WTH?!

2) I let you watch me while I sleep. Yeah, I know you do it. I hear you tiptoeing in and staring down at me with that pathetic “loving look.” Frankly, its creeps me out.

3) Because of me, you get to relive your long-lost childhood and play at the park…face it if you tried to dig in the sand and skip around on your own you’d be escorted off the premsies  

4) I give you the impression that you’re a genius even when your explanation of  “how  I got into my mom’s stomach in the first place,” fails to clarify sh*t.

5) I’m a walking photo op… from smearing my face with frosting to reaching into the dryer buck naked, each and every shot’s frame-worthy.

6) I keep time for you, reminding you that each and every day I get older you’re one step closer to the grave. You’re welcome!

What do you think? Are YOU a sh*tty kid?

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I can remember it all like it was yesterday, because that’s when it happened.

My mom had asked me to throw away my empty Yoplait GoGurt wrapper instead of chucking it on the floor. And by “asking” I mean she launched into that grating dictatorial tone that the CIA should use for audio torture.

Any who, I lift the lid of the trashcan and what do I see? One of my paintings that I had painstakingly created at preschool after naptime and before outside play!! I called it, simply, “Rainbow.”

One day, this painting coulda bought me a house.

There it was, crushed, broken and inert. Five minutes of my life down the potty. Seeing it shoved into that cavernous reeking void made me lose it like only a true tortured artist can.

That woman is lucky I’m only allowed near the butter knives or I would’ve lobbed off my own ear, Van Gogh-style, in protest.

Here’s the thing: My mom knows absolutely NOTHING about art. Yes, to be fair, she has supported some of my major exhibits. My “Giant Girls with Sun In Upper Left Hand Corner” retrospective that’s currently on display in the hallway and my controversial “Traced Hands” series that’s still on exhibition on the refrigerator.

When I confronted my philistine mom on how she could trash my cherished artwork at first all she could muster was, ‘I’m sorry.’ Yeah. Sorry you got caught.

Her excuse for destroying a priceless canvas? Apparently there just isn’t enough room in our house to display or even store all the art I produce. It’s true I am quite prolific. Everyday, in fact, I create between 6 and 15,000 pieces of inspired art. You know what I say? House isn’t big enough to display my genius? BUY A BIGGER GODDAMN HOUSE. Problem solved.

My mom as we enjoy some “quality time” together.

(UPDATE: I heard my mom tell my dad that a guy named Steve Jobs died. I don’t know who he is… but I get the idea that he has something to do with her favorite companion…and I don’t mean me. )

One thing I’ve noticed about my mom, (and most moms), is they’re always yammering on about how they don’t get enough “quality time” with their kids. They suffer from “mom guilt” a made up aliment where women claim to be burdened with the crushing feeling they’re failing their children.

I call bullshit.

Let’s take just yesterday for example. Mom thought it would be fun for us to hang out at a cafe together. A little mother-daughter bonding. Usually, so she can down her umpteenth cuppa, I can score myself a cookie, or two. Junkies will do anything to get their fix.

Then what happens? She asks me a few questions about what went on at preschool. I start to tell her that Emma punched Jacob in the throat during nap time and out of nowhere she pulls out her phone and proceeds to check her email!! So rude. She LOVES that frickin’ phone of hers. I hear her tell people it’s changed her life. Well, it’s certainly changed my life. Since she got an iPhone, catching her focus is almost impossible. I’d have more luck forcing Emmett, a kid in my class with ADHD, to sit through Eat, Pray, Love.

I swear she looks at the thing about a gazillion times a day. And for what? Does a women in her 40’s really need to see who responded to her Facebook status? Who really gives a shit? Facebook was designed for college students not middle-aged women who waited way too long to have children.

Want to know what’s WAY more important than incessantly checking email or downloading another ‘time-saving” app? The interesting dynamic between Emma and Jacob. Those two can’t keep their hands off of each other.

At least with picture books I didn’t have to rely on my parents to read to me.

For half of my life (since I was about 2) I’ve reveled in the simple joys of life: Eating Cheerios with my feet, drawing on my stomach with Sharpies and of course reading. After all who doesn’t like curling up with a good book?

Problem is, since I can’t read yet, enjoying a compelling story puts me at the mercy of my parents. And rest assured, listening to those clowns read to me is like taking a handful of Ambien. Puts me right to sleep — not because I’m tired but because I’m so effing bored.

If you read to your kids, here are  a few suggestions to keep your audience:

If you’re not a professional character actor lay off the accents
I know I might be responsible for crushing a few dreams of my parents. Maybe at one time they thought they’d be actors or something. But let’s be clear:  Don’t use my story time to practice your “craft.” For example,  Pinocchio’s Geppetto doesn’t need to be read in a stereotypical Chico Marx Italian accent — it’s embarrassing. And your “Bob Dylan with emphysema,”  interpretation of the Lorax gets a little old. Keep your day job.

If you’re too tired to read, don’t cheat.
Just because you’re too exhausted at the end of the day doesn’t mean you should insult my intelligence by skipping multiple pages when you read me a story. It’s pretty obvious when a story goes from someone vehemently NOT enjoying green eggs and ham to someone who’s suddenly going ape-shit for the stuff. Give me some credit.

Keep your eyes on the page
Can 45 year olds ADD? If so I should slip my mom some Ritalin in her morning coffee. She’s a wreck. When she’s reading to me she can’t seem to focus for more than two pages at a time. I’m on the edge of my seat listening to Fox in Socks wondering whether “chicks with bricks come or chicks with blocks come” and suddenly she’s jumped out of bed switching the clothes to the dryer, checking her iphone or refilling her umpteenth glass of wine. Sit still sister.

As most of you know, I’ve often longed to counter the wildly popular Shit My Kid Ruined website with one called Shit My Parents Ruined. First casualty on the list of shit they ruined:

My creative process.

Case in point: Yesterday I find this t-shirt in a bag for old rags and proceed to make my mom a pillow. Why? Because bitch loves to nap. After cutting out my pattern, stuffing with toilet paper and sealing it shut with a liberal application of white glue I present it dripping and beautiful to my mother.

Does she scoop me up and smother me with kisses of gratitude? Does she praise my environmentally friendly use of reclaimed objects? Nope. She FREAKS. According to her the t-shirt got into the rag bag by mistake! This shirt, she says, was some sort of “memento” from her days when she did stand-up comedy in the 90’s. Hard to believe my mom was involved in anything having to do with standing up. Most of the time she’s sprawled out on the couch whining about how tired she is.

This women is continuously stifling my artistic growth — like suggesting that things that are glued should be left to dry…why wait for it to dry?! Art should be fluid!

I guess the crux of the situation is my mom is waaaay to possessed by her possessions. Parents need to be taught a lesson about ‘letting go.’ That’s why, every now and then, I like to f-up their sh*t. They’ll thank me later.

Posted: November 13, 2011 in Uncategorized
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