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.


5 Ways to Get Lazy Ass Parents Out of Bed

I don't know which is worse...trying to get my parents our of bed or when they fall asleep in mine.

My morning routine usually goes something like this: I wake up around 6 a.m. refreshed and ready to greet the day. I then race into my parents’ room and with unbridled joy begin bouncing on their bed. What do I invariably find? Two giant fleshy sloths snoring away like chain saws.

What a freaking buzzkill.

For most of us, getting parents out of bed  is no easy task.  Heard of  a book called Go the F*ck to Sleep?  How about one titled,  Wake the F*ck Up. Guaranteed if preschoolers had any income, we’d make it a bestseller.

Seriously, parents will do anything to stay in bed … in order to prolong their slumber my mom and dad employ the pathetic trick of asking me if I want to “cuddle” with them. Yeah, right. Snuggle up, as you fall back asleep and drool all over my head? Sorry, I’ll pass.

So how do you get parents out of the sack without all the bullsh*t? Here are a few tips:

Maintain a firm wake up time
Even if you feel like you could just play in your room and give mom and dad a few extra minutes of sleep,  don’t give in. Parents need to understand that the life they had before you were born is over. That means never sleeping in again until the year 2028. Ever.

Give them a 2 minute warning
Warn your parent that wake-up is in two minutes, or give him a choice — “Do you want to get up now or now?”

Keep consistent wake up time rituals.
One morning don’t  try to awaken dad by affixing stickers to his face and another  serenade mom with some significant audio from your Leap Frog Leapster. Make sure to wake up both of them same way. It’s only fair.

Reward them!
If you can manage to get them out of the sack  show them your appreciation by drawing them a beautiful picture of a flowers or a trucks!  Then be sure to shove it under their bleary-eyed faces while they’re waiting for their coffee to brew. Take this time to explain to them, in detail, your thought process for color and composition.  Do not accept, “Not now” as a response.

Read to Them
Who doesn’t like to be awoken to a nice book? Even if you don’t know how to read you can still recite what you remember from your favorite stories. I find the most impaction to be Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. Works like a charm.


Why I’m Pissed My Mommy’s Not Chinese

The closest I'm going to get to Chinese values is Mulan.

Unless you’re living under a parenting rock you’ve probably heard about Amy Chua, and her new book Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior. Chua, it seems, believes the only way to raise a child is through military-like discipline including forced piano practice and pop calculus quizzes before dinner.  The mommy blogosphere of course is in an uproar. Moms like nothing more than to freak out about the latest parenting style de jour. Hell, I’d be surprised to hear my mom even had a parenting style. From what I can tell she’s making this shit up as she goes along.

I’ve got to side with Chua on this one. I’d be WAY better off with a Chinese mother than the one I got. My mom’s feeble attempt at instilling me with ‘discipline” is creating a flimsy chore chart. For the first couple weeks it was great.  I got stickers for everything I did. Now she barely remembers it’s there.  I’m quite sure her diligence in teaching me a solid work ethic will pay off one day when I land a job as head cashier at Target. If I’m lucky. Also, thanks to her, the chance I’m going to get a gig at in the Philharmonic is pretty much nil. Nobody’s forcing me to play the violin four hours a day. Au contraire. Mom’s  idea of introducing me to classical music is showing me Bugs Bunny in the Rabbit of Seville. Pathetic.

So, does my mom have the eye of the Tiger Mom?  Not bloody likely. Not only that, she makes a mediocre stir-fry. I am doomed.


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?