soapboxdiner

Where's my bike?

So there I am, getting home at 6:30 of the eve. I toddle-race my round self down three houses to the sitter and grab the kid. He hops on his little blue Schwinn and races the hell out of it all over the street.

I says, "Um okay - time to come home now. Comeoncomeoncomeon, places to be kid. No, I said come on. Hey! Get back here! You're going in the wrong direction there, big guy. Turn around. No, turn around. JESUS GOD DAMN CHRIST! GET YOUR SKINNY LITTLE ASS OVER HERE AND GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW! I'M NOT PLAYING WITH YOU, CHILD. DON'T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE. YOU DON'T WANT ME OVER THERE, BUCKO. Get in the car. Thank you. Jesus."

Because I'm a patient and nurturing mother like that. But really, Subway Sandwiches were calling me. I had to get some grub, people. I had orientation today and nobody let me have lunch. Or breakfast. And it was 6 damn 30 and I was HAWNGRY.

Finally, we get in the car. We go, and it Ahkbahd's first day on the job. It took him fully 25 minutes to make my damn seafood salad sandwich with lettuce, olives, and jalepenos. TWENTY FIVE MINUTES OF HELL, PEOPLE! In which Freddy Garcia the freaking NRA card carrying Manager shares his pride and joy that we're going to war.

Idiots. I should kill them all creatively - like by pummeling them with the salt shaker until their brains come out their noses. Jesus.

Finally, we get home. "Hey, where's your bike, kid?"

"I don't know. I parked it right there in the yard, Mom."

FUCK.

All over the damned neighborhood. Have you seen our bike? Have you seen our bike. HAVE YOU SEEN OUR BIKE??

No.

So we're coming back home, conspicuously missing the Schwinn. It's 7 freaking 15 now. It's dark out. But then something shiny sticking out half-hidden behind the neighbor's truck. In their yard. Hidden in their yard. Yup, there it is. Steven's bike and Steven's helmet.

I walk calmly up to their door. Knockknockknock. And from inside MaRRRRRIA! La Senora esta aqui!

Yeah, god damn it. La senora is definitely ESTA AQUI, bitch. Come here. No, come out here. Is this my son's bike hidden behind your truck? Yes, that bike, right there. Is that ours?

Lo siento, senora. No hablo engles.... Mijo blahblahblahblah bicicleta. Lo siento, no engles.

DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME! YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I'M SAYING ABOUT MY CHILD'S BICICLETA, BITCH!

Oh, sorry. Hernando the Cousin brought it here. Sorry.

I'd have hurt that woman, y'all. I would have, except they shoot people. They shoot them dead and I don't want to be dead. I just want them to leave my shit alone.

Idiots. Thoughtless, rude, bike stealing, Mexican polka music playing, people shooters.

I HATE THESE PEOPLE!

6:09 am - 03.19.03
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