My period and my house repossessed. Fitting and ghetto all in one day. However, comma, I wouldn’t be half as bitter had my husband remembered to buy me a cake. Seems after 8 years still he thinks taking me out to dinner with a bit of song and dance at the table is enough. It’s not. How many more years must pass before I am worthy of the cheap ass supermarket cake I so desire. Thank God for the local chapter of SIF. They baked me a cake. Granted it said, “Larry birthed Kelly.” Larry was yummy. He was chocolate with chocolate frosting and yellow afterbirth (icing). I blew out the candles in one puff. Shocked? You shouldn’t be. I wished for…more cake. 8 years and he still thinks paying the waiter to bring me treats 72 hours prior to the due date will suffice. Not. I need cake. Lots of it. Whilst I don’t require gifts, I do require he not buy himself gifts on my birthday. Apparently too much to ax. So… a dinner date with the Mexicans and Sheila Boof it was.
Thank God for the sisters. As I arrived for my birthday evening sans spouse, I was greeted by the smell of a freshly baked boxed cake and the anticipation of queso. Perfecto. The sisters know what is takes to bring me to my happy place. I really should have rewarded them with sex. At least they work for it. They even threw a movie into the mix. So what they think Shia Labeouf is a chick named Sheila Boof. They gave me cake and queso. IQ not required. Another birthday let down…Gordon Gecko. I so wanted you to be the mean, money grubbing ass of yesteryear….but no…you had to be…just like the rest of the men I know… uneventful. So in the midst of pouring rain, 38 years after perfection was proven plausible, there I was…with a card, a caked named Larry, breath smelling of chupalas (yes, I meant to say it that way) and Sheila Boof. The day of my birth played out as a horror movie. Nice. Whilst I am not “high maintenance”, a little deference to all that is me once a year isn’t so much to ax, is it? Is it so wrong to wish for sex and cake (in that order) in the same 365 day period? It’s almost a BOGO…you give me cake and Viola…sex! Not even an expensive cake…a cheap supermarket butter cream frosting cake bearing the name of some unsuspecting freak goes a long way when your holding up the line at 180!
I wonder what birthdays are like on the other side. Do the 1/4 pounders wish for broccoli florets and skinny jeans? Broccoli gives me gas. Cake gives me inches. Not the inches I soo desire but replacement inches work wonders in a pinch. It’s funny how we always want to celebrate our birthdays. Tell me what’s so exciting about turning 38? I’m too young to stop bleeding, too old to get laid and too fat to think about being thin! Cake is the answer. I wasn’t sure what to wear on my birthday. Not that I have alot of choices. 2 pairs of shorts that fit and a half a dozen shirts. Go crazy. So I went with the shorts that “poof” when I wear them. They make me feel saucy. When I squeeze my butt cheeks this large poof of air expands and exits via my waistline. Thank God for emergency exits. This is excitement at it’s best in my world. No one knows what’s going on. I just squeeze and poof…instant air conditioning. Skinny girls just don’t get this kind of action. So I wore the “poof” shorts and a shirt that made my boobs look bigger than the $5,000 investment that got them to their current state. Hello birthday girl.
Birthday’s are like one night stands. You shouldn’t have expectations. If you are the lucky recipient of a great piece of cake….eat it…all of it…savor it sisters. If you are teased and left to wonder what happens next, run. You might be married. I can hardly wait til 39.