Monthy Newsletter: Month Thirty-three

October 11th, 2006.

Dear Leta,

Today you turned thirty-three months old. I gotta say that I thought that motherhood was going to be a raw deal, but since your father and I started exploiting you for cash neither one of us has had to work a real job for a few months now. Score! Who’s Mama’s little meal ticket? That’s right! You’re Mama’s little meal ticket!

But….Leta? There is a slight problem here; traffic is down. You haven’t done anything shrewish or ill behaved for quite awhile now and most of our audience consists of bored stay-at-home mothers who have trouble disciplining their own child so they really enjoy reading about you because it makes them feel less like failures. I mean, you’re not appealing to our target audience anymore Leta. What is the problem? Is this your way of rebelling? I was hoping you’d rebel with some black lipstick and a boy twice your age (Boy, I can’t wait to write about that!) because honey? It makes for good entertainment and like it or not, you’re in the entertainment business.

I don’t think you understand that if there is no traffic, there is no money. And you know what money buys, don’t you? That’s right….liquor, trips to San Francisco, a huge sense of entitlement and an elmo doll or two for you when we’re feeling generous. I guess you didn’t realize how important you were to this family when you quit performing, did you? But no need to feel guilty, dear. Your Mama has been taking your place for the time being. I had a ‘big cancer scare’ recently and spent a few days babbling about staying out of the sun and my lack of health care. You know, really playing up the pity angle. And now I’m sinking into a Deep! Pit! Of! Depression! And that should buy us some more time. I mean, I really think I can sink….sink….sink…..for at least another week or two if you need a break to think things over.

Listen, I know you were upset when I posted about your enema. And some of the pictures that I’m taking of you are a bit unflattering. I know that picture I posted where you had chocolate smeared all over your face only spurned a rumor that it might not be chocolate, but actual shit. And I’ll admit that a few people might have cited the maniacal gleam in your eye as evidence that it was the former and that you were, indeed, a shiteater. But honey! That’s just the way the Internet works! People are cruel! Don’t you know that the proper response when someone says you look like Jennifer Love Hewitt’s retarded cousin twice removed is not to demand that your parents protect you by taking you out of the public spotlight. It’s an airy smirk because seriously we’re making out like bandits here!

Leta, I’m your mother and I’m going to have to be firm. You either get your act together and do something dramatic or your Father and I will be forced to have another child. And don’t think for one second that I’m threatening, Miss Missy, I will do it! My audience can’t just sit around here twiddling their thumbs reading about me sinking….sinking….sinking into a vast hopeless pit of depression again while we wait for you to get your period or something. We need content and we need it now, dammit! You are the star of this show and you will start behaving as such or we will birth ourselves another star. And then imagine how you’re life will be: playing second string to your little brother’s hotdog puke.

A tantrum doesn’t seem too much to ask for now, does it? Do the right thing.


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