That's My Bix!

Welcome to BirthWeek Spectacular’.

I’ve always thought that Birthdays were too ephemeral. I’m more important than just a DAY, goddamnit. I need a whole WEEK of subserviance and special treatment.

Treat me no differently than you would the queen.

Or Rupaul. That would also be acceptable.

So the first order of Birthweek is to figure out how I’m going to react when Birthweek reaches it’s midpoint and I actually turn 30.

Will there be sobbing? Will I get really drunk and get a tattoo? Will my lousy sister put up embarassing “Weetabix at the beach as shot from behind” pictures at work? One of the benefits of having a Birthweek Spectacular’ is that you are exempt from little consequences like being tried for murder.

“Drawn and Quartered”. Now there’s something you don’t hear about anymore. I think it’s time to bring back old traditions of revenge, don’t you, Amy? I’m just saying. Because I do have sick and fucked up relatives who thought that if they took a PICTURE of Weetabix, in her BATHING SUIT, which was not traumatic enough to purchase and then WEAR in front of God and everyone… then SHOWED the picture to Weetabix when she wasn’t expecting it, for instance, when a cute punk boy stopped by to see if Weetabix wanted to go out or something, then MAYBE Weetabix would realize what a tub of lard she was and lose some weight. Because that was their purpose in life. Too make Weetabix realize what a fat piece of shit she was and get her to lose weight.

Can you tell that I’m really glad I’m not 16 anymore?

It’s a good thing that I had those relatives drawn and quartered during a previous BirthWeek Spectacular’. No consequences, remember. Brilliant. I highly recommend a BirthWeek.

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Last night, Esteban and I went to dinner at Olive Garden with Esteban’s mother and my sister and my niece, Abby, who graces yon banner ad below. It is very entertaining to eat with a two-year-old, let me tell you.

She decided that she really really liked the alfredo breadstick dipping sauce that I ordered. So much so that she ran her fingers around the bowl and licked the sauce off her fingers. Until. She. Got. Every. Damn. Drop. Of. Luscious. Sauce. This is the way to enjoy life, people. Right there.

And a two-year-old shall lead them.

But what gives for charging $1.99 for half a cup of alfredo sauce to dip the dry, hard, shitty breadsticks in? Couldn’t they give you free Alfredo sauce? As an apology for their shitty service and food?

Isn’t that HOSPITALIANO, for chrissake?!?

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Here’s what I want for my birthday present: my dream is to have Unclebob list me as a favorite diary. That’s my dream. But I’d be really really happy if he sent me an email. And told me how he get’s those separater line things in his diary, because have I mentioned how tired I am of asterisking all the time?

But I’m fairly sure that it’s not going to happen. Plus, I wouldn’t want him to just PITY LIST me. Only if he actually dug the diary.

I just want to be loved, is that so wrong? Is it?

Or hate me. That’s fun too.

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Several people on Google find this diary when searching for “Aidian Quinn”. I find it very sad that Aidian Quinn does not have a web page pimping himself already. Or maybe that makes me love him more. I haven’t decided.

Last night, shameless hornster that I am, I was searching for “Russell Crowe naked” on the web. And found many diaries, including one who mentioned that someone on Google found her by searching on “Russell Crowe naked”. So it’s not just me. Of course, I then became one of the Googlers when I hit her diary on that search.

But if you DO have some Russell Crowe naked pictures (or even Russell Crowe naked), let me tell you, that would truly be a wonderful addition to my BirthWeek Spectacular’.

I’m just saying.

As I have had very few (read: none) responses to my Porn Twin survey, I have sought a higher authority.

The Burgermeister himself.

Esteban confirms that the Porn Twin does indeed look like me.

I don’t really know whether to be happy about this or upset.

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Esteban also stated that it was probably not a good idea to put pictures of myself on this page as he’s afraid a sexy stalker would show up and whisk me away.

When I seemed pretty thrilled with that concept, he threw up his hands in disgust and compared me to Dennis Rodman.

No. I’ve never kicked a camera man in the crotch.

Wanted to, but never did.

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Three days of double updates. Wow. Shit. I better slack off or y’all will get used to this.

Unless you sign my guestbook. Stalkers accepted.

What I won’t say to pimp the guestbook.

Today, Markus sent me an email at work which said that he’d be bringing over my birthday present early, since it had arrived today. He said he wasn’t expecting it so soon and had wanted to wait until my birthday, but, well, I’d understand when I saw the present.

Um. Ok.

Now, y’all know that I’m InstantGratificationGirl. I can’t stand to wait for shit. So naturally I am wondering what could it be? What could not wait until next weekend’s Birthday Spectacular’ party? Or even my actual birthday, which is before then?

Couldn’t be a Twinkie. Those last forever. Maybe it was a dream date with Johnny Knoxville from MTV’s Jackass, but that didn’t really make sense, since Markus is Esteban’s best friend and was the best man at our wedding. Don’t think that he’d be fixing me up with any dates.

That’s when I thought “Maybe it’s a puppy!”

Yes. I am four years old.

A fluffy puppy with big brown eyes that would jump on me and lick me all over until I was in a giggle fit. A puppy that I’d call…. hmmmm…. Spike. Yes, Spike the puppy. And I’d feed him Double Stuffed Oreos and lots and lots of Diet Coke. (Warning: do not feed your dog Oreos or any kind of chocolate as it will kill them. We at Weetabix.diaryland.com do not condone feeding dogs anything harmful or mistreating them in anyway. Please feed your dog or cat brand name pet foods, such as Hills Science Diet or torn up scripts from MTV’s Total Request Live and they will live a full and healthy life with regular bowel movements.)

Ok, so now I’m hoping for a puppy at this point and then I realize that basically I’ve screwed over Markus because anything he brings me is not going to be as cool as a puppy. It’s just not. And I love Markus to death. He’s my favorite platonic male. He’s awesome. And he’s going to dress up in a kilt when we go to Ren Faire. So I don’t feel too out of it, all dressed up by myself. And Markus has never even BEEN to Ren Faire. But he’s doing this. Can a person be any sweeter? I think not.

But Markus has a history of getting wonderful presents. For our wedding, I was whining to him that I didn’t like my car at the time (this was pre-Monte), so what does Markus do? He went out and rented this SAHWHEEEETTT silver sporty thing for me to drive that weekend. So I didn’t have to drive to my wedding in a bomber. And he had a permanent magnetic sign made up by a professional sign maker that said “Weetabix & Esteban Just Married” with the date and stuff on it. It’s now living on our refrigerator. Because that’s what kind of awesome guy Markus is. Seriously. Words cannot describe.

I rushed home from work and Markus, being the paradigm of earliness, pulled up seconds after I rolled the Monte into our garage, which I can now park in as Esteban was storing this Network Attached Storage device in my parking spot in the garage and I assume that he moved it or it was picked up or whatever. I never really did understand that whole deal. Why store a $60,000 piece of equipment in a $80,000 house? Really, where’s the logic? But back to the story.

Markus brings in my gift and it’s a plain cardboard box. He hands me a knife and immediately I realize: it’s not a puppy. Unless Markus is now channeling Charles Manson and we had to sacrifice the puppy two weeks before summer solstice in order to fully benefit the evil vibes or some weird shit like that.

So I cut open the box and, after sorting through 56,340 styrofoam packing peanuts, I encounter A LEAF. Then MANY LEAVES. Then a little tree.

Markus got me a bonsai tree. Markus got me a flowering white rose shrub bonsai tree. With little white flowers on it.

No, really, he’s a heterosexual male.

And believe it or not, it’s WAY better than getting a puppy. For one, it does not piddle on the carpet. It does not harass my cats. And it’s lovely. And at some point, I get to PINCH it!

It’s like this whole Karate Kid thing going on at the Weetabix household. And for Christmas, he got me this way cool chinese lantern thing because he likes our black and white tree photos that I’ve got in the living room and he thought it would look cool. And it does.

And now he got me a flowering bonsai tree. I seriously almost teared up. It was just so sweet and thoughtful! Wow. Like it’s the best gift I’ve gotten for my birthday in a long, long time.

So I told him about how I wasn’t sure what he was getting me and told him about the puppy thought.

Right away, Esteban pipes up. He holds his finger up sternly to Markus and says, “You are not to get her a puppy. Understand?”

What the fuck? I am almost thirty years old and my dad Esteban is still declaring what I can and can’t play with.

“I hate dogs. We have cats. Cats are nice. No dogs.” Esteban says, petting Chelsea with finality.

Did you ever see that Christmas movie about the origin of Santa Claus, called “Santa Claus is Coming To Town”? It was sort of that stop/action animation like the “Rudolph” special each year. I think Mickey Rooney voiced Kris Kringle. And there was this guy who ran the little town, named the Burgermeister who declared that all toys would be outlawed after he tripped on a little boy’s toy. And then Kris Kringle came to town with toys and the Burgermeister put him in prison to be sodomized by the Easter Bunny because he refused to be the Tooth Fairy’s bitch. And then he scraped a hole in the wall of the prison and hid the hole behind a poster of Rita Hayworth that Morgan Freeman got him and then the Burgermeister came in and discovered that Kris Kringle had escaped and Morgan Freeman started laughing and the Burgermeister put him in solitary confinement. But the important thing is that Kris Kringle broke out of prison and got to be Santa Claus and make toys.

But anyway, that’s my husband. I’m married to the Burgermeister.

I called him Big Napoleon and he got defensive and I laughed and Markus laughed and then I told the story about when Chelsea pee’d on Esteban on night in bed. And I almost passed out with a laughing high.

My husband the DogNazi aside, it was a super present. I’m getting a bit verklepmt. Seriously folks.

Thanks Markus!

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I was talking about Sleestacks at work today and the chick who was claiming that I was pregnant earlier this week said “What if you were really pregnant with a Sleestack’s child?” and I just sat there in shock.

Shock.

Is there a single thing you can think of worse than that?

Can you imagine, a little sleestack hybrid child running around the playground, chasing after the Normals with his little lobster-like claws, making that “CHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” noise?

Eeek.

Dante was right. No matter what you think your personal hell is, it can always get worse.

So the measuring: She tells me, “Ok, I’ll need your shoulders and your bust to neck mesurements and your arms.” And I relax because, hey, how many people have FAT bust to neck measurements. It’s not like people in personal ads remark “Svelte SWF, curvy with a luscious 12 inches from bust to neck….”

Phew! I explain to LadyAtWork that I was a little nervous because I hate being measured, cause it’s so damned scary. And she get’s this blank look on her face and says “Oh, I’ll need the standard bust, waist and hips too.”

Erm. Ok.

She whips out this little tape measure that she carries in her purse and gives me this big hug to get it around my ample bosom and you know what? The tape went to the very fucking end to measure my bosom. Yep. She ran out of fucking tape.

Cause that’s what kind of SuperWoman I am.

Do not misjudge the power of my breasts. They have the power to make mortal tape measures recoil in fear!

But really, I’m freaking out. Because I KNOW my ass is bigger than my boobs. So I’m trembling when I feebly say “Um, I guess you’ll have to guess for my hips….”

You should have seen us. It was like some strange S&M scene gone awry. Two women, fully clothed, one with a tape measure around the other one’s chest, leaning in close to read the numbers, me doing an impression of Portly Ballerina with my arms up over my head. In an office cubicle. While various Hindu contractors busied themselves around us, trying not to pay attention to the crazy white ladies next to them.

She sighed. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll need the waist and hips because it’s an empire dress. Just your bust.”

I realize this was her giving in to the power of my SuperChest. I should have had more faith in the Girls. They know what’s best for me.

So other than the Breast-Tape-Running-Out incident, the most traumatic thing was the arm fat measurement.

I have the great misfortune of inheriting my great-grandmother’s scary grandma under arms. You know the stuff you see at church picnics and retirement homes, peeking out at you from sleeveless ginham shirts or throttling at you madly to hold the elevator at Our Lady of Perpetual Hygiene.

My cat developed this same type of thing on her belly when we had her spayed. It’s too bad you can’t just put a zipper on the thing and call it a coin purse. Really. That could be handy some day. Think of how much simpler clubbing would be if you didn’t have to carry a purse? I think this is my body saying, “Since you’ve decided to forego the pregnancy course, we have a lovely round of menopause planned for you,…. the kitchen will just be needing a little extra time to prep for that, so I’ve brought you an appetizer of arm flab on the house. Would you like me to refresh your skin with a little rosacea while you wait?”

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Tonight, I ended up on a two hour call with a client who doesn’t like to talk to anyone else but me– Chip. He says I understand him. I entertain him because he always says “Yes, Ma’am” when I ask him questions or tell him to do something. It’s not an age thing, either. He’s actually much older than I am. It’s a southern thang. I eat it up. When I saw the dredge that was Pearl Harbor, I sucked up the part where Ben Affleck and Eye Candy Boy keep saying “Yes Ma’am” and “No Ma’am”. Man, that southern boy thing is sexy. So now I envision Chip looking like a mix of Ben Affleck and Eye Candy Boy, which I’m sure that he does not. He probably looks like a mix between Colonel Sanders and Boss Hawg, but as long as he says “Yes Ma’am”, he’s got his own personal Tech Answer Girl.

Yes Sir.

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Because I ended up not leaving work until 6:30 due to my extended Chip-fest, I drove directly to my volleyball game and arrived late. No chance to go home and change. No chance to eat. No chance to pee. Slipped off my black leather flats and scooted barefoot onto the sand court in black pants, taupe shirt, black hooded vest and my kick-ass Harley Davidson sunglasses.

We then proceeded to stuff the ball down the Debutante’s throats. I think we had them at an advantage because someone would yell “Muffy, get it” and they’d all go for it. We took all three games. Rocked the house down. Also, I think I must have looked pretty damned cute out there, all a mix of business class and coach, hillbilly and Beverly Hills.

Of course some people call that look “trash”.

Then afterwards I skedattled because I still hadn’t peed or eaten or even changed my clothes. Flutter Tummy is still dictating dining choices (although the Fudge Fluffs are not going to be making another appearance, thank you. Apparently, twelve Fudge Fluffs would take down a normal mortal. I, on the other hand, am not as susceptible, because I am empowered with SUPERBREASTS. Ok, I’ll stop that now.) So I was thinking that the perfect meal would be a Diet Coke and a McFish thingy without the mayo stuff. So that’s what I ordered. And fries. And a single cheeseburger without mustard because what if I took one bite of the McFish and had a flashback to the whole chicken head incident, which is responsible for my abstinence from McNuggets?

And that’s when I had an epiphany. I’m sitting there with a five in my hand, waiting impatiently at their drive-through window for the McUnderpaid to give me my din-din. For five minutes. Five minutes with my arm hanging out the window with a $5 bill in my hand. And I thought: that’s five minutes of my life I’ll never get back again. If I were terminally ill, I’d really be pissed off right now. And that’s when the message of “Dead Poet’s Society” really hit me, people. That’s when I let it in to my heart. Don’t get a special order at McDonald’s because they will sap your fucking life away from you while they scrape the tarter sauce off your McCarp. Special orders, do, in fact, upset us.

But the upside to this: McUnderpaid Boy gave me two fries. I suppose he was thinking “Two sandwiches get two fries”. So, I get home and now I’ve got serious glut of fast food, since I had “contingency planned” in the first place. It was quite the connundrum. Believe me.

So I did the unthinkable. I tossed the fries and the cheeseburger.

I know. I’m just as shocked as the rest of you.

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And that brings our rare Double-Entry Wednesday to a close. I hope you enjoyed your flight. Please return all tray tables to their upright position.

Wave at beautifulson because he’s having a bad day today. But he made me smile a dozen times today so I’d like him to feel better.

Tell me about your day here.

Am I the only one who sees that the song “Butterfly” by Crazy Town is about making a woman have an orgasm? “Come my lady, come come my lady, I’ll make your legs shake, you’ll make me go crazy.”

Am I? Or is it just me.

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This morning, I’m driving to work with my sunglasses on and it’s raining. It’s raining and everyone has their headlights on. So I put MY headlights on and there I am driving in the dark and it’s raining and I’ve got my sunglasses on.

Sometimes it’s really hard to be this cool.

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I am completely still nauseous today. My coworker keeps telling me that I must be pregnant. Um. No. I really get sick of that sometimes. It’s so not funny. But it never fails.

Two years ago, I got the flu and threw up at work. It took exactly 43 seconds for it to spread around our department that Weetabix threw up and maybe she’s pregnant. Um, lessee, half the fucking department is out with the killer Austrailian flu and I heave and it’s because I’m pregnant.

Yeah. Ok.

My sister came over giddy because she had heard that I got sick. Because she works at the same company I do, which is, at times, a mixed blessing.

“Would you tell me if you were?”

“What, sick?” I said through puke breath as I was gathering my things to go home.

“No, PREGNANT!” Her eyes were big, like Cindy Lou Who looking at her roast beast.

People, if this is how it feels to be pregnant, I highly doubt that the species would continue. Or that people would have more than one kid. Because I could NOT see spending nine months or whatever feeling nauseous and dizzy and pukey.

It’s mainly the people who already have children who are claiming this, too. Have you ever noticed that the only people who are all “Have Kids!” are people who already HAVE KIDS?

I think that they get sick of seeing how much fun and freedom we childless have and want to make us stop reminding them of what their life was like. Before kids.

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Thank god for Diet Coke. It is my entire nurishment right now. Wonderful, cool, bubbly nectar of the gods.

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LadyAtWork says that she needs my measurements for my Renaissance Festival costume. ohmygod. Is it possible to lose like 60 pounds in 20 minutes?

I have this intense fear of measuring tapes. It’s linked to my fear of gym class.

I was traumatized by the many many times I had to strip off my clothing while shopping for wedding dresses. There is nothing in this world like having a Church Lady Wannabe “helping” you squeeze your size 26 bod into a size 16 gown. These women become your best friends because they are in such a position of power over you. At any moment, they can assess your sad, pathetic thighs or your tummy, and look down their noses at you. So you suck up to them. And when they tell you that something makes you look good, you practically burst into tears like a Miss American contestant being handed a tinfoil crown. It’s that powerful. And when one comes toward you with a measuring tape, well, you’re trembling because you know that your back fat is simply not acceptable.

One of the Dress Ladies was trying to sell me a wedding dress with a three foot butt bow on it.

“Um, but if you put a three foot bow on my butt, won’t it make my butt look three feet wide?”

There was silence and you could see the little hamster inside her head running frantically to spin the wheels of her brain.

“Well…. it’s not going to do it any favors.”

Ok, if I’m spending $800 on a dress, I want it to do me some favors. I want it to wax my car and pick me up from the airport at 11:00 pm at night. I want it to whisper in my ear “Damn, honey, you look FINE!”. I want it to push me and pull me and contort my body into that which is acceptable by 21st century fashion dogmas. And most importantly, I DON’T want it to make my butt look three feet wide.

But because I wanted her acceptance, I stupidly tried the dress on anyway. It was not a good thing. My self-esteem took a nose-dive that day. But it made the Dress Lady happy, see. Cause I didn’t want her to think I was a bitch. It’s a bad enough thing to be a fat chick but to be a fat bitch is another thing.

But it all comes down to the fear of measuring tapes. And the measurements it provides.

The measuring tape reveals every chimichanga, every volleyball game where I didn’t give 100%, every damn television show and hour spent online instead of running frantically around the block/city/nation.

Yikes. Hold my hand, please.

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“Measure” is one of those words that if you look at it too much, it starts to look wrong.

Do you see how close it is to “measles” or “mealy” or “meal worm”. That’s what I’m saying. This is not a coincidence.