Today is Blaker's 35th birthday. I consider birthdays to be rather grand affairs. I like tacky birthday decorations--metallic streamers, helium balloons, gifts all wrapped up in something shiny with a curly bow on top. Every year, I work really hard to make sure that everyone in the family has a spectacular birthday. However, it appears that this year, the fates are working against me. I present to you:
A LIST OF REASONS WHY BLAKER'S 35TH BIRTHDAY HAS GONE HORRIBLY, TERRIBLY, DREADFULLY AWRY, DESPITE MY BEST (USUALLY DRUNK OR MEDICATED) EFFORTS:
*No driving or solo childcare was attempted during the times of alcoholic/pharmaceutical assistance.
1. The Cake-- Blaker asked for a chocolate cake with vanilla icing, courtesy of a Southern Living recipe that I had made before that turned out AWESOME. Not good. Not delicious. Fucking turbo-dynamic awesome. It's a complicated recipe that involves lots of ingredients, timing, and perfect measurements. Yesterday, I went shopping for all the necessary items. I put on my Martini apron. I drink a few glasses of wine (this always improves my cooking--trust me). I bake the cake. I pull said cake from the oven. Said cake is flat and weighs approximately 37 pounds and also has a strange, brownie-like consistency. No go. Cake is dumped into the trash can.
The Cake, Round 2-- (A Cosmopolitan and another glass of wine later.) I re-gather my ingredients. I allow them to reach room temperature. I bake the cake, yet again. Thirty-two minutes later, I pull the cake from the oven. Cake numero two is flat and weighs approximately 37 pounds with a strange, vanilla-brownie-like consistency. (I thought perhaps the cocoa had messed it up, so I had gone for vanilla cake the second time.) No go. I think, possibly, cake might improve overnight. I go to bed. I get up this morning. Cake still blows. Motherfucking flat-assed cake is thrown across the room, where the dogs proceed to make it breakfast.
The Cake, Round 3-- I get dressed and drive to the store. Farm Fresh has the best cakes, so that's where we go. My only choices are Barbie and a pink-and-purple confection with glitter sprinkles. Despite overwhelming urge to purchase the Barbie cake just to see Blaker's expression, I leave cakeless. We drive to ANOTHER Farm Fresh. My only choice isn't even a birthday cake, but some chocolate coconut thing (Blaker and I both hate coconut). We leave. We drive to Wal-Mart. We proceed to buy a giant white sheetcake with primary-colored confetti sprinkles. It's generic, but at least it's edible.
The Presents-- Realized a few days ago that I had bought none. Decided my best option is to drink and think about it. Had a couple of Cosmopolitans. Found 311 tickets on the Internet for a concert July 1st. Scored awesome seats. Realized, as I sobered up, that tickets will not arrive until late June--a bit too late for Blaker's birthday TODAY and that B will probably force me to attend 311 with him (I hate 311). FUCK. Learn new lesson, "Do not shop while intoxicated." Return to Farm Fresh (post earlier cake extravaganza). Purchase bottle of decent wine. Figure if I present it while wearing slutty lingerie, gift will suffice.
The Decorations-- Took Sutton to purchase streamers and balloons, during which excursion he begins to throw a fit because I won't buy him gum (just cleaned melted gum out of dryer for SECOND time). In all the chaos, forget to buy decorations. Also manage to lose my keys. (Keys were later located.)
The Food-- In-laws are coming over for birthday dinner. Blaker has requested shrimp creole casserole via the Paula Deen cookbook. Simple enough. Get out the cookbook to start prep work and realize that since I usually cut the recipe in half, I do not have enough ingredients. Return to Farm Fresh. Briefly entertain idea that after third trip to Farm Fresh in one day, security is probably becoming suspicious. Realize that if I am hauled off and questioned as a terrorist, I will not be required to cook. Consider forgetting something on purpose so that I can return later.
Come home. Begin drinking.