Guess what weekend it is? No, that's alright. I'll wait.
What? You don't know? I, too, nearly forgot what this whole two days signifies, but then I am the sort of person who forgets to pick up items at the drug store that were actually on the Palinode's list I was carrying with me. I picked up everything in order of its placement on the list, because I have no brain to speak of these days, and I still missed two items. Of course, one of those items was beef jerky, and that's just wrong in the first place, so my brain probably glazed over whenever my eyes fell on that bullet point and swept on to more important things, like the part where it mentioned nachos. I also forgot bullet point number five, which read "increased access to cultural and recreational opportunities via investment in our aging infrastructure", but I blame that on the fact that my basket was already pretty full, and that would have tipped me over the ten-pound weight limit I've been given so as not to tear anything internally that I don't want torn.*
This weekend, for all of you who, like me, did not initially understand its importance or even properly recognize it as such, is The Palinode's Birthday Weekend. He has specified that there should be birthday presents, a birthday trip to Taco Del Mar, birthday nachos, and birthday drinks. We just woke up twenty minutes ago, and he made the request that I make birthday coffee.
Today is Saturday. His actual birthday isn't until Monday.
He spent the last two weeks dropping repeated mentions of all things birthday, because, as if you didn't know, during The Palinode's Birthday Weekend, it is all birthday all the time. There will be birthday kisses and more birthday presents and birthday taxicab trips and birthday breakfasts and lunches and suppers. I wouldn't be surprised if the sheets I just washed will magically transform our bed into The Palinode's Birthday Weekend Birthday Bed.
If you have been around here long enough to remember, I hate birthdays. It is not some ageist fear of growing older that leaves me pallid and cold-sweating in the middle of the night, staring at the patched spots in our ancient ceiling. It is that birthdays summon my crippling fear of death. I know. I am such a sunny person. Also, buying presents throws me into fits of anxiety. I am the person who always brings you the most unimaginative present, because I spent two weeks freaking out about what to get you and then grabbed the nearest most predictable book in a moment of last minute panic.
Schmutzie, The Birthday Wife™, would not make a good blow up doll. Schmutzie, The Birthday Wife™, is a life-size, anatomically correct figure. The arms and legs are movable, and all parts are made of soft, durable materials. She loves nothing more than to stare at the ceiling all night. Warning: tends to over-inflate when left untended and may explode on contact.*
Last year, I made the whole birthday experience more palatable for me by posting embarrassing pictures of him on the internet. I am much nicer this year, though, and will do no such thing.
Although, if Schmutzie, The Birthday Wife™, had not overexerted her recuperating, post-hysterectomied self with housecleaning yesterday, she just might have given The Palinode, The Birthday Boy™, the thirty-six birthday bumps he's been inviting.**
* Check it out. I had a hysterectomy two-and-a-half weeks ago. I am not even allowed to lift the heavier of my cats, Onion.
** The Palinode's excitement about his birthday, aside from bringing out all my favourite issues, is actually endearing. His eyes light up like he's just been given his first balloon. If he had a tail, he'd wag it. It is the fact that he is so damned cute about the whole thing that saves him from The Palinode's Birthday Weekend Birthday Kicks To The Shins*** while I try to banish visions of what our funerals will be like. Gawd love 'im.
*** Except that I wouldn't kick him or visit any other physical violence upon him, because the Mennonites brainwashed me with pacifism for the first eighteen years of my life, and I even took a university class called "Gandhian Non-Violence: The Meeting of East and West". In real life, I am very nice to him. If I am not, the Menno guilt eats me alive, but not before the disembodied spirit of the Mahatma gives me a speech about the principle of ahimsa.