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DEAR ESPERANZA: Suegra from Hell.

June 30, 2010

Dear Esperanza:

It’s my suegra. She’s the devil. Or la Llorana. Or Godzilla. She’s ugly enough to be all three. The most evil presence I will ever know.

She’s always at my house…criticizing my cooking, reading my mail, searching my underwear drawer, complaining how messy the house and children are. Well, of course it’s messy; they’re children for God’s sake!!!

I tell my husband over and over again, “Get her out of here!” The idiot responds, “But she’s my mother, I can’t kick her out. Besides, it’s good for the kids to be with their abuela.”


I don’t even have the hope that she’ll die soon. She’s as strong as an ox. Every time the kids get the flu, I tell them to hug their abuela and wipe their mocos on her cheek. Nothing.  She doesn’t even get the sniffles. I thought old people couldn’t get colds! I’ve tried giving her measles, mumps, chickenpox, athlete’s foot, toe nail fungus, leprosy…I even bought a pair of used panties from a prostitute with gonorrhea and gave it to her for Christmas. Nothing. Her dried up chocha must have some kind of force field.

I spend every waking moment dreaming of killing her. Should I strangle her? Stick her blue-haired head in the microwave on full power? Stab her with those damn knitting needles?

I called MIGRA. Can you believe the witch has the best homemade papers? Damn fools couldn’t tell the difference. I wrote a letter to President Obama. Illegal suegras are criminals, savages and must be punished! We must take back America!

I even told the local gangbangers she was selling drugs on their turf. The fools just laughed. I’d like to see them try to be all tough with Suegra From Hell in their gang.  They’d run away like little girls and join the Girl Scouts. Pendejos!

I don’t need advice, Esperanza. I need a hitman.


No-more-suegra Nuera


Dear Screwed-Over Nuera:

This is a horrible, terrible tragedy.

When the balance of power of the universe shifts, the void creates chaos, locuras and telenovela drama. A black hole of barrio misery, murder & mayhem.

But of course, that’s never happened to me.

I’ve been through a dozen or so suegras. They didn’t have a chance. My toughest adversary, Suegra #8, played a good game, and yes, you could say she won–she has her mijo back. But I returned that foo a broken, miserable little pendejo. He still cries himself to sleep every night. Good luck with dat, Suegra #8!

The first time we met, she gave me that suegra look—her beady eyes traveled all over me, up and down, up and down…

Bring it.

I smiled demurely, kissed her nasty wrinkled cheek and called her “Mamita”. She cringed. After she recovered, she pointed an arthritic finger and the interrogation began…

“I heard you were casada seven times. You must have more mileage than my husband’s Pinto!”

“You were a stripper in a Tijuana bar. My hermano, Pancho, saw you!”

I calmly explained that none of my marriages were consummated–the nuptials were simply business mergers, like what Donald Trump does. I ran an Immigration counseling service to help needy customers in need of papers. And of course, I traveled to Tijuana. Where else would I find clients? And hello? I love to dance.

I assured her my cereza was intact. Si, with a straight face.

The interrogation and snide remarks continued incessantly for weeks. But I never lost my cool. Had an answer for everything. I wasn’t even that much into Husband # 8—poquito stamina, and poquito everything else, but I was determined to make that woman’s life as miserable as possible. And what better way to do that than marry her son.

I drugged the pendejo, stuck him in the trunk and drove to Vegas. By the time Suegra #8 arrived, Elvis was throwing confetti over us.

I thought she would die right then and there. But she was a tough old bird. I poured a bucket of ice water over her face to shake her out of her coma, then led her caringly into the Vegas Chapel bathroom.

“Mamita, I’m so happy to be a part of your family. You have no idea. But the balance of power has now shifted. Chocha power rules and your son’s little cabeza belongs to me for the rest of his miserable little life. If you ever want to see your son again, or even dream of the possibility of grandchildren, you will do whatever I say.”

Before she fainted again I added, “You don’t want to die alone…do you, Mamita?”

As for Screwed-over-Nuera, the solution is simple. Before suegra has a chance to arrive, pack up the kids, the dog and the rooster and head to her house. Teach your children to play with her cherished breakables from the pulgas, squeeze her Preparation H inside the toothpaste tube. Let the dog chew on her dentures, break her reading glasses, eat her out of house and home, and make sure there is no such thing as a clean dish while you relax, catch up on your reading as a guest on her sofa. After a few days, your suegra will take a long vacation back to Mexico and forget to bring her fake papers on the way back home.

Love is a mucho splendored thing.

Take the power.

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