Ok, so today has been really crazy. In a good way, not in a Margot-Kidder-singing-“Jesus Loves Me”-in-a neighbor’s-backyard kind of way.
First this morning. I was touched by greatness and received several loverly emails from the crew.
Just to put in perspective how influential Unclebob is (or UB, as some call him), my diary normally has about 20-30 different users on it during any given day. And one of those users is me. Today, the diary had over 130 visitors and it’s only 9:00 PM. I think Unclebob should run for Senate. Or maybe Dogcatcher. Because then he might write more about funny pet poop issues.
So I go to work and my stall, er, cubicle is completely decorated with “Over the Hill” balloons. Remember my lil’ sis Amy who works with me? Yeah. Ok. The balloons were nice. The psychotic confetting of every crevice of my desk, including inside the drawers, not as cool. I will be glittery for the next decade, I promise you. I may need to quit my job to escape the glitter.
Then I got a call from my best friend in high school, Fern. Very cool. She’s coming to Birthday Spectacular’ on Saturday with her husband. She’s taking me out to lunch on Friday. Awesome.
Then Esteban called. He took me to lunch today. Anywhere I wanted. So I picked awful greasy Sports Bar #253, in the shadow of Lambeau Field. And ate my entire lunch WITH MY FINGERS. And Esteban did not say a word. Then I snitched three of his huge potato wedges off his plate. And he endulged me (and I KNOW he hates that! Because it would piss me off too!) even when I stole the very last watery sip of his Mountain Dew. Go ahead. Pander to me. Endulge me. I am your goddess. Say it! I am your GODDESS!!!! And driving back to work, he stopped at a gas station and jumped out of the car to purchase some Dasani water for me and some Advil, which just pisses him off to no end, paying $5 for a bottle of Advil at the convenience store. And then he drove slowly by the Packer mini-camp so I could lean out the window and show my breasts to Brett Favre and yell “Wooooooo!”. Then we laid down some streak and busted out of there before Mark Chumura could write down our license plate.
Ok. That last bit didn’t happen at all.
Then back to work, where I scored some swag off a client at a major carbonated beverage company (although won’t know what the swag is until it gets here!) and I didn’t even tell him it was my birthday. More emails from more friends at work, which was very lovely.
Then home, where I declared that I desired barely cooked flesh of cow for dinner and only HoidyToidy supperclub overlooking the Fox River would do. We hardly ever go there because it’s where Green Bay’s pseudo-elite and old money hang out. We generally see Packers there and figured we’d risk it, after the lunchtime flashing. Maybe I’d get a free drink? But only the blue-hairs and white patent-leather shoe crowd were in attendance tonight. We dined on fabulous undercooked tenderloins. Truthfully, I think that the only reason I go there is for the raspberry vinaigrette dressing and I’m sure that they’re just using Paul Newman’s, but I don’t really care. It’s Birthweek, dammit! Endulge me! I didn’t eat with my fingers there, though… not much, anyway.
Then off to the rentals, where I received a lovely jumongous ROCK on a chain, as well as a new pair of athletic shoes. You see, Mom knows I’m too cheap to clad my feet in expensive nice shoes, but I do so love them, so she buys them for me for my birthday and Christmas. Which, if you read “The World According To Garp” is strangely poetic, only these don’t contain douche.
Esteban’s gift to me was a SLICK tripod for my camera setup, which is now worth more than my car. The NICE car.
And how’s this for Murphy’s law. I run into the house to catch a phone call and it’s lovely Mary Kaye, my best friend in the whole world, so I flop my ass onto the sofa and promptly hit my elbow so hard on the wall that the air around me turned blue and thick with vile language. That’s my hello to Mary Kaye. It’s a good thing she’s all that. She understood completely. Plus, Esteban humored her until I stopped channeling Andrew Dice Clay. I tell you, I think this diary has turned me into a potty mouth. It’s mofo this and mofo that. Fucking ‘eh.
I chatted with Mary Kaye for a few minutes and suddenly there’s a knock on the door. Flowers. From Joel and Cheri. Is that not the sweetest fricking thing? I’m astonished. So very thoughtful of them.
I tell you. I feel like Audrey Hepburn today. All “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” or maybe it was “Roman Holiday” or something. Actually, I’ve never seen either of those movies, so I have no idea. I’m just imagining what she must have been like. I have seen the movie where she’s blind and a bad guy’s trying to kill her for diamonds in some doll’s body or something, but I don’t feel like that. So let’s just say “Roman Holiday” Audrey Hepburn and be done with it, shall we?
And just to make this more of a standard “Weetabix” entry, here’s a thought:
What the hell is wrong with Angelina Jolie’s body in “Tomb Raider”??? Normal women do NOT have breasts that look like that. It’s like all the shit she injects into her lips has now settled in her chest cavity. When she lowers her head, her chin actually brushes against the tops of her breasts. Real breasts, even real silicon breasts, have some sort of gravitational pull thing happening. She seems to be wearing some sort of space-age bust enhancer thing.
So, um, I’d like to know where she got it and if perhaps they have one in plus-sized?
And I’m working to get Dave Matthews to play at dmbfanatic16’s next birthday party. I’ll let you know when that is.
Because I’m so thrilled that I asked for something and it actually happened. I got a lovely email from UncleBob after asking for it in my diary. And I know that’s dmbfanatic16’s wish, so I’m going to work on it. I’m not promising or anything, just working on it.
And if anyone else is feeling generous, what I want for my next Birthweek is for Russell Crowe to come over and retile my bathroom. Naked. And when I say “naked”, I’m implying “sweating”. But that’s a given. I have the tiles already picked out.
What’s YOUR ultimate birthday present?
