Friday, July 17, 2009

Wet Butt Syndrome



This day started like all of the others with a couple of exceptions. I looked in the mirror at 7:00 AM. Usually I avoid all reflective surfaces until well after eight or until I have consumed at least a gallon of coffee.

Whichever comes first.

I am proud to report that I do not look a year older. Seeing me in the mirror, the first thing on birthday morning was far less terrifying than I had imagined, probably due to my unfocused eyes. The blanket marks on my face camouflaged the crow’s feet and wrinkles that I am positive sprung up like mushrooms overnight.

What a relief.

The first gift I received was a neat pile of poodle shit strategically placed at the foot of my bed. The only thing missing was the candle.

Thank you, Vivian (You asshole).

Mr. Coffee responded to my pleas for the caffeinated courage I needed to face the day, and produced my first cup in record time. Only afterwards did I wonder if Mr. Coffee was setting records, or if this is what happens after you celebrate 99 birthdays. Time flies.

Fuck you too Mr. Coffee for mocking me.

My next birthday surprise was a nasty case of wet butt syndrome. I failed to notice that my neighbor Barney Rubble’s lawn sprinkler had soaked my patio furniture before I sat down to have a good cry on the veranda. So, that is what it feels like to pee in your pajama pants? Great, I cannot wait. Depends anyone?

Not nice Barney, not nice, at all.

The shower is a good place to have a nervous breakdown, or it would have been, if I would have remembered to remove my spectacles (Blindness was last year’s gift from the universe). When the steam fogged up my glasses, I was certain it was lights out. Oh, the irony of being found dead in the shower on my birthday, in a wrinkled birthday suit.


Is that irony or is it just pathetic?

Who cares? I’m old.

Not funny Universe.

Red shoes seemed happy, cheerful almost, a good choice to complement my snazzy birthday ensemble. Except red shoes reminded me of red hats, and that reminded me of those crazy women you see in restaurants crafting boutonnieres out of surplus tampons, celebrating being old, and pretending not care. I care!

Don’t even think about it you red-hatted bitches! I’ll cut you.

I am leaving for the office now. Perhaps work will serve as a good distraction. I keep reminding myself that it is 100 degrees outside.

THAT WAS NOT A HOT FLASH!
THAT WAS NOT A HOT FLASH!!
THAT WAS NOT A GOD DAMNED HOT FLASH!!!

Holy Hormone Replacement Therapy; This sucks.

Out (To Pasture) - T


1 comment:

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