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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.


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4 Ways To Screw Up Your Kid’s Halloween Night

Moments before my mom effed-up my pumpkin.

My mom ruined my first Halloween. Yeah, I was only 7-months-old but I have proof.

It’s all in a blog she posted where she claimed, “dressing babies in Halloween costumes is cruel and unusual punishment“.  The readers didn’t share her views — and this time I’m definitely on the side of the mommies.   Based on the article it’s clear my first Halloween was spent in a onesie decorated only by dried spit-up. Thanks for nothing mom.

For chrissakes. I’m only young once and that woman has already managed to cheat me out of my first Halloween — a juicy item I’m adding to my list of things to blame her for in the future.

And it continues.  Each year she manages to eff up my Trick or Treat experience. Here are just a few ways…

1) The Costume
It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind and that goes for Halloween costumes. So what if one day I want to go as a dalmatian, the next day a ballerina and the next a minor character from Pixie Hollow? It’s your job to figure it out, not mine. Just make it happen.

2) The Candy
Don’t try that “Switch Witch” bullshit on me. I’m not buying it. I happen to know that the “Switch Witch” is really my mom. By November 1st she’s scarfed down all my candy while trying to appease me with some crappy toy in exchange. Pathetic.

3) The Trick or Treat Bag
No thank you mom, I don’t want to use a pillowcase for my Halloween candy bag.  Just because that’s what you had when you were a kid. My mom obviously watched one too many showings of It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown at ye olde nickelodeon.  The candy receptacle I want is the (not BPA free) plastic jack-o-lantern like ever other kid has, the one available at Target. Period. No replacements no substitutions.

4) The Pumpkin Carving
Don’t get all artistic when it comes to carving my pumpkin. I want triangle eyes, triangle nose and a happy or scary face. For some reason my parents are hot to fashion a “goofy” tooth or expressive eyebrows. You want to practice your carving skills? Enroll yourself in a sculpture class.


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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.


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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?

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?