Tales of the Short and Fat Diva

I remember far too vividly the days when Jules and I found ourselves stranded at the dinner table in front of what seemed like a never-ending slab of meatloaf. "Guess what we're having for dinner tonight," Mom and RJ would ask tauntingly as Jules and I fell silent, followed by raw denial. Tears swelled as we reflected on the unavoidable shape our night would soon take. It was made even worse when Mom forced us to prep the ingredients that led to our eventual demise. We scoured the kitchen for bread and sauces to distract from the taste, to no avail. No matter how voraciously we tried, our night always ended the same. Blood shot eyes, tear stained pajamas, two plates of untouched loaf; the only way it could have been worse is if I had to face it alone. Jules knew better than to desert me on meatloaf night.

My apologies, I got lost in the story, akin to dads speech at my graduation party :) The point I was trying to get to... at the end of that brutal night Mom would threaten us by boxing up our meatloaf for breakfast the next day (and we would let her believe it was a threat because it was our only chance for freedom from the dinner table).

Last night, the little girl didn't finish her fish and her mom boxed it up and made her eat it for dinner tonight! What kind of a mom actually follows through with that sick joke? But, moral of the story, every little girl needs a sister to share in the suffrage of inedible foods. I suppose I was intended to be that surrogate sister, but I don't play those games. I live in constant fear of my señora kicking me out for not licking my plate clean.

My señora is now scolding her daughter, the little girl is screaming, stomping, crying, and Mariah Carey is blasting in the background. I can't think of any worse form of torture. Get. me. out. of. here.