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The Tooth Fairy Can Kiss My Ass


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.


Ignorant Mom Destroys Priceless Painting!

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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.


Thank GOD My Mom Didn’t Try to Make My Halloween Costume

Halloween is almost here!! I can’t wait to get my hands on that October 31st candy cache — that is whatever passes Little Miss Muffin Top’s “inspection.” (Should she really be inspecting each piece of candy by shoving them in to her mouth?)

Anywho, tomorrow is my preschool’s Halloween parade. I’m SO ready to put on my store-bought Super Girl get-up and run around blowing off some steam with my friends. Normally I’d be bummed that my costume comes off the rack. But D.I.Y. and my M.O.M. do not mix. A friend in my ‘hood who just turned 2 has a mom who managed to make hers. It looks awesome. Apparently her mom knows how to sew.

Check out my mom

Not mine. She couldn’t sew her way out of a paper bag. Last month I asked her to sew a plastic eyeball back on Sasha my stuffed pony. Easy-peasy, right? Wrong. It never happened. (Poor thing still has no depth perception.) No doubt my mom probably thinks I forgot. I didn’t. Not by a long shot. It just bolsters my argument that she’s severely lacking in any fundamental homemaking skills. (Where the hell was she during her high school Home Economics class…smoking ciggies in the boy’s room?!)

If you need proof of her inability to wield a needle look no further than her sewing kit. It’s simply a tangled mass of thread. Looks like a freaking bird’s making a nest in there. Obviously, any costume she’d try to make me would have me looking like a mental patient. News flash: The One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest costume was not on my list.


5 Reasons I Don’t Want to Go to Bed

OK, full disclosure. Bedtime pisses me off. There I said it. If you don’t believe me you can swing by my street any night around 7:30 and easily identify my house. It will be the one emanating the blood curdling screams, the begging and of course the crying. Lots of crying.

Parents think the reason kids don’t want to go “nighty-night” is because we’ll be missing out on all the fun. I say: Don’t flatter yourself. You guys aren’t that exciting.

Here are the real reasons you take that one-way ticket to Dozy Land and shove it.

1) It’s freakin’ lonely.
No wonder parents think bedtime is so awesome. For them bedtime means cuddling up next to each in giant fluffy beds. Bedtime for me means laying alone clutching a synthetic inanimate object for comfort. You do the math.

2) Left with my own thoughts I fear I will plunge into a quagmire of lingering ennui. What if the world runs out of cake? What if I can’t find my sparkly purple scrunchies? Is there something going on between Dora and her Cousin Diego? And if so isn’t that a bit creepy?

3) I don’t want to hear the freaky noises from your bedroom. Once a week (OK, to be fair maybe once every two weeks) I detect the most bizarre noises coming from under my parent’s door. A lot of banging around and heavy breathing. What are those two wackos doing in there? Moving furniture?

4) My parents can’t function without me. With me out of the picture my parents will actually have to talk to each other. Seriously. I’ve seen what happens when those two are left to their own devices: A whole lot of nothing. When I’m around they are guaranteed a panoply of entertainment: avant garde puppet shows, impromptu naked dancing are just a small sampling of my repertoire. With me asleep who’s going to distract them from the fact that they’ve relegated themselves to a mundane middle-class existence? It’s the least I can do.

5) My sugar consumption will be cut off for 9+ hours
If I’m sleeping how the hell am I going to con you into giving me more dessert items? Unless I can count on you to feed me cookies and candy intravenously I’m painfully aware that if I go to sleep the sweet shop is closed.


The After School Torture Chamber

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?


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?