The Birthday Post
I am now reporting to you all as a grown ass 25-year-old, and let me tell you that 25 is SO TOTALLY DIFFERENT than 24. I traded in the MINI Cooper for a Hoveround last week and honestly folks, I've never felt a smoother ride in my life. Then again, perhaps the extra padding that my Depends protective undergarments provide have something to do with that.
After a delicious breakfast of stewed prunes and Ensure, I spent the better part of my birthday morning advising my guud friend's 91-year-old grandma on the best way to break down the levies of her bowels and unleash a much anticipated flood of poo. Of course, being that I am the resident spelunker in town, this is not the first poo plea I have received (nor, dare I suggest, shall it be the last). In fact, I successfully frightened several elevator patrons when I was heard inquiring, "Does it hurt when she tries to go, or is she just uncomfortable because she WANTS to go? Well tell her that she doesn't NEED to go everyday. What is she, Old Faithful?" You'll all be pleased to know that the poo predicament has since been resolved and all systems are go. Please, please, hold your applause til the end of the post.
I then ventured over to my mom's where I was handed an infant who immediately proceeded to squirt runny green diarrhea all over me and my birthday outfit, in all it's splendid Dress Barn glory. She then regurgitated a slew of projectile spit-up onto the areas which remained unsoiled. My mom claims she was getting her revenge for all of the bright camera flashes I so cruelly inflicted on her undeveloped little eyes on HER birthday two months ago. Silently holding a grudge and spitefully seeking vengeance many moons after some random and unintentional infraction? Yeah, she's definitely a member of the Spoon family.
My mom cooked me up a fabulous birthday dinner which consisted of Hooter's frozen hot wings, breadsticks, and a Betty Crocker easy bake single serving cake. You know, the kind where you just add water and heat for two minutes? THAT WAS MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY CAKE, PEOPLE. She got seriously offended when I stuck my spoon into the undercooked bowl of goo and ate a bite before she was able to sing happy birthday, which she proceeded to do on her own, whilst holding a lighter in the air like she was at some kind of fucking rock concert because she didn't have birthday candles. Everyone else refused to sing along, and my sister actually snatched the cake from mom's hands while she was still singing because a) she wanted a bite, b) she wanted her to stop singing, and c) she is a member of the Spoon family, after all, and being an unmitigated bitch is a prerequisite for acceptance.
After assaulting my niece with more kisses and cheek pinches and raspberries than any fat, smelly, hairy-chinned old Aunt could ever dream of managing, I went home to watch some Murder, She Wrote, rub on the Bengay, and talk to my plethora of cats as if they were real children. When the neighborhood hooligans dared to tread upon my beloved begonias, I fiestily waved my broomstick in their general direction and threatened to come after them on my Hoveround if they so much as laid another toe on my lawn. I might be old, but I'm so old that I can't still scare some bitches. Word.
So instead of being a responsible pet owner and spending more time with my angst-filled, socially isolated cat, I did what most lazy ass pet owners do and went out and got another cat to subject to the inhumane torture of living with me. I adopted the most adorable, snuggly, gorgeous black kitty from the local shelter named Percy. I now have a $300 dent in my wallet and a raging case of ringworm. Karma is such a cocksucking bitch.
After Percy came home, he developed one helluva respiratory infection. I took him to the vet to get it treated, but the antibiotics they gave me didn't work. So I kind of freaked out and took him to ANOTHER vet who gave him IV fluids, many different shots, prescription cat food which based on the price I have surmised must contain Alaskan King crab and Beluga caviar, and some bubble gum flavored antibiotics which cost more than my fucking car payment. Oh yes, and let me not forget... $6.00 for a fucking SYRINGE to force feed him with. DO YOU PEOPLE HONESTLY THINK THAT I AM GOING TO PAY $6.00 F0R A FUCKING SYRINGE when a) stealing from my employer is FREE, and b) the production cost for one of those bitches is all of like four cents. BULLSHIT!
So after about a week, Percy started feeling better and eating on his own which, THANK GOD, because I was really starting to consider letting him starve to death as a viable alternative to squirting smelly, slimey, disgusting cat food into his mouth with a $6.00 syringe every 4 hours. I was still keeping him separate from Oscar because the last thing I need right now is TWO sick cats, although Oscar could probably stand to stop eating for a few days because his gut has recently been making close personal acquaintance with the ground when he walks. My plan to keep them separate was successful until one fine day when I came home to find Oscar in his usual position at the front door, awaiting my arrival so that he could lament about the abuse I inflict on him by leaving him alone for two whole hours. The look on his face was one of, "Hey mom, hey, hi, what's up, how's it goin'? I've just been right here, the whole time you were gone, minding my own business, waiting for you patiently. What's that? Oh, don't go upstairs. No, no, wait- whatever you do, don't go up there! Look at me! Look at me! DON'T GO UP THERE!"
As I climbed the stairs, I heard Percy's meek little whine and found him cowering in a corner, shivvering and crying and wishing he were back in that shithole of a shelter because even euthanasia is better than the wrath of a sumo-sized Tonkinese. Exactly how my perfect, precious, loving, well-behaved, fur child MacGyvered his way into my CLOSED AND LATCHED bedroom in order to launch his full-scale attack upon the sickly, skinny, naive and innocent little Percy is a total mystery to me, but he seriously knew he did something wrong and was trying to hide it from me.
A few days ago, after Percy fully recovered from his snot-fest, I allowed the two to spend supervised visits together. They seem to be getting along well, mostly playing and snuggling with one another, but sometimes stalking and pouncing on eachother (I really think they're playing because they don't seem to hurt one another). All was well and good in the tri-pussy community until Percy started getting these funky scaly lesions on his head. ONE MORE vet visit revealed that it was just a bacterial infection under the skin- easily treated, not contageous and nothing to be concerned about. WROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG!
FUCKING RINGWORM, PEOPLE.
ALL. OVER. ME. And now Oscar has been exposed, too.
For those of you who I will see in Austin, let it be known that I am buying a pink polka dotted bikini and touting my ringworm as a fashion accessory. Unfortunately for all of us, I won't be participating in the nude jello wrestling competition because I don't think any of you want a fungal outbreak on your coochie (except for Megan who hasn't gotten laid in so long, her cooch already has a fungal colony that puts my pussy's to shame).
I HAVE to do This.
At any rate, I still have enough brain cells left to share a funny little tale with you all. I wasn't going to blog about this, and Nessa I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but I simply must.
Several months ago while at Nessa's house engaging in one drunken soiree or another, Miss B. jumped up from the dinner table and shouted, "MOM, CAN I HAVE A WEINER?!"
Being the most mature and sophisticated person that I am, I began laughing hysterically and asked, "So Miss B... you like weiners, do you?"
"Yeah, especially the ones with cheese in the center!" she enthusiastically replied.
"NESSA!" I howled, "WHAT KIND OF PARENT ARE YOU? YOUR CHILD IS ASKING FOR CHEESE-FILLED WEINERS!" Miss B. seemed oblivious to our jokes, but I do believe that the remainder of the night was filled with more weiner-speak than the autobiography of Boy George.
It turns out that Nessa was just as shocked as I was at her daughter's liberal use of the word weiner, and we began quizzing Miss B. on where she learned the term and why, despite its many inappropriate connotations, she still insisted on using it as a synonym for hot dog. Miss B. looked at us like we were a couple of inbreds right off the retard bus and replied matter-of-factly, "HOT DOGS have buns. WEINERS do not. There's a difference, duh."
So it turns out Nessa's daughter doesn't like buns with her weiners.
Last week during yet another Spoonleg invasion of the Silly household, Miss B. and I were discussing her unnatural obsession with spaghetti-O's when she informed me that her favorite part is the franks.
"FRANKS?!" I exclaimed in abject horror. "Did you just say FRANKS? What happened to WEINERS, Miss B? I thought you liked WEINERS!"
She giggled and replied, "But saying weiners just sounds bad!"
"You didn't have a problem proclaiming your love for weiners last time we discussed them! What changed your mind? Why hath thou forsaken the weiner?"
Miss B. gave a melodramatic sigh and said, "Weiners have cheese in the middle. Hot dogs have buns. Franks are bite sized pieces in Spaghetti-O's. Geez."
At that point, I threw my hands up in defeat. For the love of WEINERS, I can't keep up with a 9-year-old's extensive pork product vocabulary! How did I even get INTO grad school, I wonder? It's a good thing my "clinical" familiarity with weiners is pretty ample, anatomically speaking. I don't know if I should be proud or embarrassed to admit that I haven't actually partaken in the consumption of a weiner many, many years. Or possibly EVER, if we're strictly speaking cheese-filled. Somehow though, I don't find it totally unbelievable that NESSA'S child is more weiner savvy than myself. I still have a lot to learn in life, and I have the distinct feeling that Miss B. is going to be the one to teach it to me.