Ah . . . the weekend! Tis a lovely way to not work. Except the weekends are usually more exhausting than a work day, aren’t they?
As Goofy would say, “Gawrsh!” (I wonder if Disney has that copyrighted. I did properly site the source . . . )
Let’s see, we woke up on Saturday, went to Borders, waited in line for three hundred hours to pick up our reserved copy of Harry Potter, dropped off Matilda at a friends, cleaned the domicile, visited with the Pudding family and marveled over the cuteness of their infant, got Matilda back, read the first chapter of Harry Potter, watched a few episodes of The Office on BBC America and collapsed. Then, Sunday started . . . We went to Target, washed the cars, paid bills, put together my new grill, went grocery shopping, attached the gas tank to the grill, seared some animal flesh on the open flame, drank beer, read another chapter of Harry Potter and collapsed again.
That’s in a nutshell. Though it did feel that hectic. And I have my first sunburn of the year. At least my pale Irish flesh is no longer translucent. And I didn’t even mention fixing a leaking pipe on Friday night with the help of a brother-in-law.
But the most important thing is that today is Matilda’s eighth birthday. It’s almost impossible to believe that when I started dating her mother she was only two! My how she’s grown from an inquisitive, impossibly bright toddler to an emotionally tight-lipped, quiet, yet inquisitive, impossibly bright adolescent. That she’s bitter, suspicious and witty is icing on the cake.
Oh yes, cake! To provide a princess with a proper birthday celebration requires strict preparation.
I woke her up this morning and presented her with her first gift. My farmer’s tan from cleaning the cars. She was thrilled.
Mom made her a special birthday breakfast because, “I don’t want cereal on my birthday!” She then complained, as a proper princess should, that she didn’t know that we had Fruity Pebbles! That’s a proper princess birthday breakfast cereal!
She asked when she was getting her present. I told her she could have one right now and presented her with her very own portable lawn chair, complete with arm rests and cup holders. I was shocked that she was excited about it. It really was for her, but it’s not her real birthday present. Alas, she really did think it was cool. Tis now known as “The Throne”. Loyal subjects on bended knee acting as ottomans sold separately.
She began to get suspicious about her real present though. When will she get it? What is it?
Ah, worry not little one. Mommy and Daddy have taken good care of you. I told her that we have purchased a whole roomful of presents for her. Which is true. We got her one of these.
Still, it takes a lot of work to prepare a princess’ birthday. The visiting dignitaries from continent, representing all the cultures of the world are due to arrive any second. The elephants have already arrived and are in the back yard. Cirque du Soleil is setting up their tent in the front yard (and the bastards only speak French . . . I have no idea what they are saying). The 72 dancers and singers are practicing in the living room. And do you have any idea how hard it was to reunite the two surviving Beatles to sing “Birthday” for her? It was no small feat and I fear selling my soul was, perhaps, too high a price for an eighth birthday. What will I have left to sell for her sweet sixteen?
I mean, besides my dignity, sanity, and last shred of common sense?
Oh. Gotta go. The Cirque ringmaster and Macca are arguing who gets top billing. I’m afraid Paul’s one-legged wife is about to beat the living hell out of Cirque’s aerialist.
And where the hell is Ringo?
Discuss The Right Good Highness's Perfect Celebration of the Eighth Anniversary of Her Birth
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