Caillou’s Daddy hasn’t touched me in weeks. Make that months. I don’t get it. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how Caillou and Rosie even entered our lives. It’s like they’ve always been here. Caillou has interrupted us in bed so many times, but God knows he’s never interrupted any lovemaking. The last time he sauntered in here whining about shadows and some nonsense, Caillou’s Daddy actually got out of bed and made him hot chocolate. That child is never going to learn proper boundaries with that kind of parenting.
I’d accuse Caillou’s Daddy of sleeping with Miss Martin, but he’s such a eunuch I don’t think that’s possible. I’m sure Miss Martin wouldn’t turn him down. She’s such a floozie and a complete alcoholic. I smelled vodka on her breath this morning, I’m sure of it. But truthfully, how can I fault her? She teaches preschool for God’s sake. To that red-headed little heathen Leo, no less. God knows it takes me at least two cocktails to make it through breakfast with the rest of this Sunshine Family.
March 3, 2013
Let’s get real for a moment and talk about the color scheme of this house. My eyes bleed each time I walk into the kitchen. Red and blue and yellow this and red and blue and yellow that. I feel like the colors are mocking me and my true nature. I’m an introspective woman at heart, and I prefer muted tones. Tans, beiges, a nice ecru. I ask you – who the Hell has a bright red roof over a bright blue primary structure? Me, that’s who.
And to think I used to listen to Bauhaus in college. Le sigh.
Grandma and Grandpa are coming over AGAIN tomorrow, damn it. I feel like clipping some research about the importance of the nuclear family having time to strengthen and develop on its own and leaving it in a prominent place in the (primary-colored) living room. Grandpa with his forced joviality and aggressive masculine nature, Grandma submitting to such obvious heteronormative roles (not that I can talk, truth be told).
Oh, wait, Grandma is an artist. I forgot. Throw some pots at the Senior Center once a week and now you’re Marina Abramović. As if.
March 22, 2013
Caillou, that LITTLE TWERP. I washed his shirt for art class and made him pancakes in the shape of a dinosaur and all I got was a whiny temper tantrum at the grocery store. I know the doctor says there’s no way I can up my dosage, but I’m calling him tomorrow. I simply must.
Rosie is a sweetheart and I clearly favor her, I realize, but it’s only because I see her future trapped in the same limited, thankless role while that bald-headed son of mine moves on to some other woman in some other ridiculously-painted house and expects her to make him dinosaur-shaped pancakes just like me. Did the movement’s second wave ACHIEVE NOTHING? Sometimes it feels that way, I will tell you.
Only Gilbert understands me.
Park, school, kitchen. Park, school, kitchen. And the mothers at the park. Morons! I tried to discuss Judith Butler’s latest essay with Clementine’s mommy and the mommy of those damn twins no one can tell apart, and all I got were vacant stares.
I’m a Vassar girl, for Christ’s sake!