Turning 49 & Fine Tuning My Twisted Religion

Every year on June 16th there is a (SCHIZOPHRENIC) part of me that likes the idea of a sash and crown.  I have an alter ego who wants people to wave & honk at me from their cars, mouthing: “I KNOW YOU!  IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!”   This egomaniac wants others to thank me for gracing the planet, to love me with glee in their hearts. 

So it’s really f*cking disappointing when none of that ever happens! 

To change it up a bit, this year I decided to host my own First Annual Birthday Party.   (Hosting people in my home is one of the most stressful things I could ever do to myself).  I went with it anyway because this hideous number of 49, so close to 50, has given me the philosophy that I’ll be dead relatively soon (if I live to anything less than 99 I’m over the freaking hump & on the downhill side!)

so I should do EVERYTHING!  

To keep it interesting,  I brought in a hostess with www.pureromance.com and she demonstrated her wares for entertainment.  I’m way more of a prude & far less experienced in this area than my obnoxious mouth would lead you to believe.  Thus, I now realize that my husband and I have been living like neanderthals, using things like fingers and toes & Kool-Whip instead of C.rings and Pick.le Pleazers and Strawberry Cheesecake flavored whip. 

By the time it was over I was concerned that with some of the more complicated devices my husband & I might get twisted and wrapped up to the point where we’d need to yell for help.  (Some implements were more out of a Star Wars re-make by Larry Flynt, rather than anything romantic!)

I was hoping for silly, idiotic nonsense & laughter.  At that we succeeded.

* * * * *

I knew there would be people who didn’t show up, people who didn’t even acknowledge the invitation.  My quite reasonable solution?  Girlfriends who didn’t appear would be written off like a tax exemption (no excuses, not free trips to Paris nor amputation).  But then Roxanne’s kids got swine flu and I couldn’t hold true to my very simple plans, just like always!  Well, except for Donna and Kathy & Diane, who . . . wait a minute.  Who?  I don’t know anyone by those names.

My ditzy wack job friend Kim replied with this nonsensical diatribe:

“Just realized your party was a fu.kkerware.  Call me old fashioned, uptight, a jerk, but make sure it starts with pro American and add Christian so it sounds even better.” 

Then she adds this little piece:

Call me when you want to go to church!

God bless your hubby!

My reply:

“Regarding church, there was a time you had gotten away from the sanctimonious bullshit . . . Otherwise, I love Jesus:)  But I’d rather deal in dil.dos than fake ass m*therfukers:) 

How’s that for honest?  I’m working on it.

49 is magical!

Love Always,

PAMAJAMA”

As for blessing my husband, what in the world does she think he prays for?  Cause I’m pretty sure you’re getting very close when it comes to cotton candy flavored massage oil that warms when blown on.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, I didn’t start party planning until the day before & we were driving the streets at 10 p.m. looking for an open liquor store so I could find brandy for marinating the sangria.  Our 11-year old was in the backseat yacking on and on about how “I can’t believe I’m driving around with my parents looking for an OPEN LIQUOR STORE!”  She’s never had to go out at 2 a.m. for a pack of Marlboros either, but it’s not like children don’t do that every night of the year here in America.  I’m sure there are roaming children on the streets right now!

The morning of the soiree I had old bowls of cereal still on the counter, books on the floor, garbage overflowing!  (To say nothing of cookies or cake or tiny hot dogs wrapped in bacon.)  In the end I remembered what I should have known from the beginning: women don’t eat!  No need to cook unless you’re inviting men and children.  Throw a vegetable tray on the table and open the wine.

* * * * *

My birthday brought about a level of negativity that made me nervous, a newfound depth of nastiness.  Even my blogging fell to the wayside as I sat in a chair, numb with the realization that my mommy days are ending and I need to get a life, one based on my own thoughts & desires & decisions.  I don’t want to.  I don’t want to succeed or fail based upon my own actions, I so prefer hiding behind my children.  I don’t want to get old, I don’t want to grow up, I don’t want to be mature, I don’t want to behave appropriately. 

I’m railing against an imaginary entity! 

I can do whatever I want! 

 I’ve got no f*cking idea what I want!

Sweet, simple people speaking of their normal non-obscene lives still make me cringe and feel nauseous.  If I hear one more young mother coo over her babies I will surely slam myself to the floor in an attempt to dull the pangs of jealousy, the annoyance at the naivete. 

We were supposed to go to New Mexico for a wedding August 1st and it’s probably a good thing that my husband has called it off.  The perfectly beautiful girl getting married AND her sister both have new infants.  They are psychotically happy, as fortunate in their current lives as any lottery winners.  Their mother (my husband’s sister) oozes with a syrupy sweet, orgasmic, grandmotherly glow that gags me. 

Recently on Facebook she replied to the utterly uncreative commentary between her two daughters with

“You two are hysterical!”

HYSTERICAL?  Jim Norton’s “Monster Rain” on HBO, created by a man who hates himself and everyone else, the blackest humor imaginable, that’s hysterical.  

The scene in “Jackass 2.0″ where a guy puts powder on the crack of his ass and then farts in the face of a sleeping dude, engulfing him in a fine white mist, THAT totally hits the mark for me. 

When I tell my daughter that’s how I’m going to wake her the next time she bitches about getting out of bed and then she punches me in the arm 27 times as we’re driving down the road screaming at each other & laughing maniacally to the point where we can hardly catch our breath upon such a disgusting thought, yep.

I seem to have found a dark place and I’m beginning to grow mold.