Saturday, September 7, 2013

Fifi Turns Ten and I'm Still Probably Going to Hell

Happy Birthday to Fifi, who turns 10 today! And without further adieu, here is an inappropriate and likely offensive letter to her:

Dear Fifi,

You're 10! I cannot believe how times flies, or more importantly, how extra extremely old I feel to have a child who is ten years old. #damnshithell. It's all about me.

Thank you for not driving me too bat shit crazy last night at your first official sleepover, although we only had 3 girls over, and two went home at 11 PM. You weren't too obnoxious, only mildly, and I didn't once have to tell you to turn that music down. Because you didn't play any, thank god, but you did watch some annoying teenie bopper shows at a louder than normal level, but since you were all sitting nicely on the couch rather than running around like savages, I let it go.

I was kind of concerned when I overheard you all playing truth or dare, and the dare was having the person make out with the giant stuffed giraffe in the living room. You're welcome for me posting that for all the world to see, and it will probably cost you a very lucrative career as a CEO or Presidential nomination, or at the very least a date with the football quarterback in high school, unless he's into things like bestiality, then you're really welcome.There may even be footage of said making out with giant stuffed giraffe, but I'll save that for a particularly important blackmail event like when you try to extort me to pay for your wedding or when you threaten to tattoo the bestiality loving quarterback's face on your buttocks.

I am very proud of the amazing young lady you have become. Smart, beautiful, intelligent, mature, loving, kind and generous. (I did not steal that from the Natalie Merchant song. Swear.) Even though I still question your choice of tights to wear on the first day of school that slightly resembled stripper pantyhose. Please do not become a stripper. Not that I'm knocking the profession, I know those girls can make an insane amount of money. I just have bigger ideas in mind for you like lawyer, hostage negotiator, united nations representative, preeminent news anchor, or you know, international burlesque show superstar. Aim high.



Friday, September 6, 2013

Nightmare On My Street

So I've been trying to get the house ready for Fifi's sleepover party tonight to celebrate her birthday and I may have to toss back some opiate based pills to make it through the evening, if I can get my hands on any. Wiener had a hydrocodone prescription earlier this year for his kidney stones that he gobbled down within a week (the pills not the kidney stones were gobbled, weirdo), because he and his prissy male urologist decided kidney stones hurt worse than child birth. What. The. Fuck. Ever. Idiots. Call me after you squeeze a watermelon through a cheese cloth and have an undisclosed amount of stitches threaded between your bits, then we'll talk pain. Amateurs.

Already the grocery store called to inform me that they can't make the top tier of the cake I ordered marble flavor because they can't do marble in a round pan. Really? Um, ok I really don't give a shit what dry ass cake flavor you want to give me, but I'm pretty sure you just throw some motherfucking marble batter in a round pan, then bake, and voila! The god damn frosting better be butter cream, though, or there will be a rumble.

I just can't wait to have four screeching pre-teen banshees frolicking around the house talking about their distaste for Justin Bieber and singing at the top of their lungs to whatever mind numbing pop tunes they decide to blast on the radio. Yes, I am the fun police. Let's all pray to the vodka gods that they just want to have a quiet evening and settle down to watch a movie then drift softly off to dreamland.  

And in classic Wiener form, instead of helping me around the inside of the house to prepare by like, oh I don't know, vacuuming or putting away Devil Baby's toys or picking up his underwear off the living room floor, he decided he will help by pulling weeds on the back patio. We are having no part of the party outside since it is still one billion degrees in Texas. Thanks, but maybe you can move the dirty dishes from one side of the sink to the other and "consolidate" or bitch about me not taking out the trash as you leave various wrappers strewn about the counter tops. That would be much more helpful and it also gives me material for my posts.

Wish me luck, peeps of the Interwebs. I will need it. Mama's all out of opiates, and I can't drink the vodka yet since I still have to drive and pick up the cake with a mysterious flavor.