Extortion on My Birthday

***Edited to Add: Holy cow. After howling with laughter over some of the lovely and thoughtful presents you guys have received over the years, I have now learned to appreciate a good can of albacore tuna. Thanks for sharing with me. The competition was too damn tight to declare a winner. But there were some personal favourites. Heh. Here's hoping everyone gets a badass wonderful gift on their next birthday like I did.***


I've never been a big birthday lover. I'm the mom who dreads the time of year when her children inevitably turn another year older. Not that I mind them growing up. What's not to love being one year closer to parental freedom and not having to be responsible for feeding the seemingly bottomless pits known as children?

No, I hate the responsibilities birthdays involve. Parties, cake, gift bag, other people's snotty children. Those things. I dread having to throw a birthday party because around these parts "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" has a whole other meaning.

Still, I power through it like the good mother I pretend to be. I don't like it, but I do it. Not well, not every year and certainly never with a smile on my face, but I have been known to throw a damn children's birthday party just so my children can feel the magical delight of having the world revolve around them for one small moment in time.

That said, I wish my birthday would just all together drop off the calendar. I don't need another reminder of my own mortality. I have wrinkles, sagging boobs and dimples on my arse as a permanent reminder to my fleeting youth.

I planned on ringing in the latest annual reminder of my cougar status by simply hiding at home, ignoring the phone and surfing the vast interweb where I am just one more anonymous lurker looking for something vapid and amusing and perhaps slightly pornographic while the day slowly ticked past and my birthday came and went quietly like a mouse hiding in the pantry.

But like most well-laid plans, it didn't quite happen that way. While I adored the fact my children attempted to kill me by feeding me runny eggs and burnt toast, I could have lived without ever having discovered a certain friend mocked my vanity and insecurities by aging me publicly on his blog.

I have since put a pox on his head.

Still, I thought my birthday excitement had come and gone early before the midday sun shone upon the golden trees in my yard. I had no reason to think any differently. Birthdays have always been a low key affair. No. MY birthday has always been a low key affair.

My darling and beloved husband hasn't always rose to the occasion and proved his love on the date of my birth. While he tends to outshine himself at gift giving during the Christmas season, he tends to walk around with his head planted firmly up his arse whenever Sept. 27 rolls around.

I knew this about my husband before we married and still I chose to overlook it when I accepted his proposal for marriage. I was young and naive and believed that the power of our love could change him and morph him into the very best, the most thoughtful gift giver ever.

Excuse me while I die laughing at my youthful stupidity.

My husband, bless his cotton socks, is a stubborn man. With a will of unbendable steel. He just couldn't understand why a cork screw and a set of cheap steak knives was not a viable birthday present. After all, I like wine and I like steak. In his mind it was the perfect gift.

He hastily realized his faux-pas as I started hurling the bloody knives at his head while calling him a doofus.

I didn't think his birthday buying skills could get any worse after that year. I was wrong. The very next year he bought me a chocolate bar and a can of tuna. That's it. He spent less than two freaking dollars on the woman who regularly played with his penis and spent more than 30 months gestating his spawn.

He did include a thoughtful and loving note about how we were strapped for cash (we were indeed, in dire financial straits) but he wanted to make me smile on my special day.

I could have thought of a dozen different ways he could have made me smile without spending any money, but none of them involved albacore tuna packed in salt water and a squished chocolate bar. Apparently, I am not near as creative as my husband is.

Then there was the year of my 27 birthday and I spent the entire night alone in the hospital as my precious Bug fought off a blood infection threatening to take his life. I had hoped my Boo would drop by the hospital and bring flowers or even coffee as I flipped through an endless pile of magazines and fretted over my child.

He decided to race home to our other two children while munching on fresh pizza and the donuts he picked up to celebrate his wife's birthday. Without saving any for his actual wife.

I wasn't bitter. NOT AT ALL.

It's not that Boo hasn't tried on my birthday. He's just failed miserably time and time again. I can forgive him for this because he buys me fancy wash machines, diamond earrings, and lap top computers for seemingly no reason other than I am very bendy in the bedroom.

He's a wonderful husband even if his gift giving technique is as sharp as a rusty butter knife.

Knowing this, I was determined not to expect anything but maybe a hammer so we could pound nails in our fence line together as a happy romantic couple. He may not be learning but I'm starting to understand how the man thinks.

So when he told me to get dressed so we could pick up my birthday present, I wasn't expecting much. But I'm a good wife so I played along and did what he asked.

I'm obedient like that.

Snicker.

Turns out, all these years of ducking flying steak knives and the man finally learned.

Picture my face when we pulled into the car dealership and he handed me the keys to a shiny new SUV.





Such a pretty Chevy Equinox. I named her Lolita.

"I'm sorry honey, I wanted to have it home for you in our driveway but it turns out I can't drive two cars at once. I needed you to be able to drive it home," he laughed excitedly at my shocked face.

"I figure this should make up for 13 years or more of bad birthday gifts," he said as he leaned over and kissed me.

After finally reviving from the shock of receiving a real (yet wildly extravagant and completely too expensive) birthday present, I hopped out and checked out my new wheels. Apparently, my fondness for driving into ditches in the middle of our Canadian winters is a tad worrisome for my husband when he works away from home.

He's hoping my new shiny SUV will keep my ass from freezing to death in a snowbank. And keep our children safe as their slow-reflexed mother taxis them around on icy roads.

I did mention my husband is the cat's ass, right?

Driving home that afternoon, while he drove in front of me in my older, banged up and very abused car, I called him to tell him how much I loved him and the new wheels.

"I can't get over this Boo! I love you! You are the best husband ever!" I gushed to him.

I could see him puff up his manly chest and polish his fingers against his chest as he laughed in the phone. "I'm glad you like it love. You deserve it."

I admit, I melted a bit at his sweetness. Then suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

"Oh DAMN IT!" I cried.

"What? Is something wrong with the vehicle?" he asked very concerned.

"No, it's fine. I just realized there is no FREAKING way I'm ever going to be able to top this ever in our entire marriage unless I spit out a set of septuplets on your birthday! I'm screwed forever!" I moaned.

Boo snorted and agreed. He's very agreeable apparently.

"Damn you Boo with your thoughtful and well timed vehicle purchases," I wailed.

"Well, there is one thing you can give me on my birthday that would top my present to you," he hinted. (I could totally see the lurid waggling of eyebrows as he spoke.)

"Really?" I asked eagerly and stupidly. "What's that?" (Nothing like setting yourself up for failure, Tanis. Way to go.)

"You could give me a blow job every birthday, and not just one of your 'there, I looked at it, good enough,' blowjobs. A real blow job. One in the morning and one at night. Enthusiastic blow jobs. While you wear a smile on your face."

(Clearly the man has never given head before otherwise he's realize the physical impossibility of such a statement.)

Silence. The mental image of me having to give him head when we're 70 and my teeth are sitting in a cup on the bedside table next to the lamp flashed before my eyes.

Why bother lying? He has as much chance of getting happy head every birthday for the rest of his life as I have of sprouting wings and flying south tomorrow.

"Sigh. Face it Boo. I'm screwed. I'm never going to be able to top this birthday present."

Not even a new zippy SUV on my birthday can make me promise to shut up and swallow.

Turns out I'm not that obedient.

*What was the worst birthday present you ever received. The person who can top a can of tuna and a chocolate bar wins a prize. Maybe a pot holder or a used sock. Or maybe just my eternal gratefulness at knowing I'm not the only one in the world who has received dorky presents. Misery loves company and all...*

Birthday Smackdown

Today is my birthday.

I am now officially one year older.

I was going to let this year, this anniversary slide by with nary a thought, but someone had other ideas.

A certain someone named Shawn Burns, otherwise known as Backpacking Dad.

Shawn got it in his head that my birthday needed to be celebrated. So he wrote a very lovely post dedicated to me and paying tribute to the friendship I have so generously bestowed upon him this last year.

While I love the fact he obviously has nothing better to do with his time other than to write odes to random mommybloggers on their birthdays, I feel compelled to set the record straight.

I am not FORTY.

I am in fact, 33. A young 33.

I would also like to point out that I do not have six double chins as the picture he posted of me implies.

Just so y'all know.

Harumph.

Birdbrain

I have a morning routine that I like to follow religiously. I get up, I yawn, I go to the washroom, I get my cup of personality (some people refer to this as coffee, I like to think of it as a life-saving elixir) and I sit outside on my deck to breathe in the fresh air and centre myself for the chaos that will inevitably follow with two preteens in the house.

There are mornings I can't do this. Three mornings a week. Three whole mornings when my routine is shattered because my daughter decided to join the school volleyball team which is coached by the anti-christ. (Albeit, a fairly young muscular, if-you-squint-he's-kinda-hawt type of demon.)

This anti-christ insists on scheduling morning practices at 7 freaking a.m. Which means I have to drag my arse out of my bed at an ungodly hour, before even the sun rises to squire my bundle of love as she bounces around in the back seat and chatters as only a fresh faced youngster can and bite my tongue until it bleeds to ensure I don't rip her face off from my crankiness. All before I can have the first sips of my morning elixir.

To say I dread these mornings would be a wee understatement. I'd rather have my pretty private parts chewed off by a rabid wild animal than get behind the wheel of my car before I'm fully awake and centered. Damn. If only I had thought about this reality before deciding to live my life out in the boondocks of Alberta. It would be much easier if I we lived in town and I could just yell at her to wake her sorry butt up and walk herself to practice.

I never was one for forethought and planning.

Earlier this week was one such joyous morning. I was cranky because I forgot to set the coffee maker the night before and didn't have time to brew a fresh pot before having to drive Fric to practice. I was tired, cranky and not fully awake. How safe is that? A grouchy, sleepy redneck behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle. Good times.

After dropping her off I went home and headed straight to the coffee pot. As I waited for my magical elixir to brew and inhaled the sweet intoxicating aroma of coffee, I walked over to the pantry to give Nixon, The World's Greatest Dog, EVER, a morning treat. While in the pantry I spied the bag of bird seed and reminded myself to fill my bird's seed dish.

This is normally a chore I pass to my children; not because I am lazy, but because I am scared of my lovebirds, Abe and Lester. They are angry little fackers who take great delight in biting off hunks of skin as you try and wrangle their food and water dishes out of their cage. They hop around the bottom of their cage and cackle at you maniacally while they peck at your fingers looking to draw blood.

Yet, despite this annoying blood-thirsty habit they have developed, I love my birds. They soothe my soul with their birdy tweets and sweet preening. I can overlook their vampire tendencies because they are so darned pretty.

Reaching into their cage, I braced myself for the onslaught of carnivorous bird beaks on my bare hand. Except there was none. Weird. That's when I opened my eyes fully and realized something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

My beloved Abe and Lester were dead, on the bottom of their cage, snuggled so it looked like they were eating out of an overturned food dish.

I immediately started to hyperventilate. Dear lawd, I hadn't even had my coffee yet and here I was in the middle of a morning tragedy. I didn't know what to do, so I backed away from the cage, shaking, and headed for my coffee pot.

Caffeine cures all ails, including the shocking surprise of discovering your beloved pets dead in their cage first thing in the morning.

I don't know why they died. Trying to fight back the tears, I did the only thing I could think of. I called my darling husband.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" I half-croaked, half-whispered.

"What's the matter?" he immediately asked, knowing by the tone of my voice something was very wrong.

"Abe and Lester are DEAD!" I gasped as the shock finally broke and the waterworks began.

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry. I know you loved those birds."

I sniffed, somewhat mollified to have my grief acknowledged. "When are you coming home?"

"I'm on my way home now, actually, love. I should be home shortly."

"Good," I replied. "You can dispose of their bodies."

"No f*cking way, love. They're your birds."

I blinked, not expecting this answer from a man who has been known to dispose of deceased pets for neighbours and friends. "What do you mean? You always take care of the dead things around here."

"I love you Tanis, but I'm not touching dead birds. They could be diseased." And with that, the image of my manly husband morphed into a sissy little pansy, scared of a couple of tiny rotting birds.

"I can't do it!!!" I wailed. "Don't make me do this, Boo. You are supposed to wear the pants in our marriage." (Nothing like playing on his testosterone to force him to do something. Heh.)

"Just toss them in a garbage bag and put them outside," he reasoned.

"No. I am just going to cover the cage with a sheet until you get home," I declared. "And if you don't take care of my birds I'm not above blogging about what a weeny my husband is. There are other daddy bloggers out there who would totally do this for me. Daddy bloggers who love me. Don't make me trade you in for one of them."

Silence. "Wow, you are just EVIL this morning."

"I'm in mourning. And the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet," I explained.

With that he sighed and I knew my tactics had worked. Heh. Sometimes it pays to know someone so well you can play them like a fiddle. (Just kidding Boo!)





Goodbye sweet Abe and Lester. How I loved you.

A bit later, Boo walked into the house and wandered over to see the remains of my sweet Abe and Lester.

"Hmm. I wonder what happened. They were fine last night," he murmured.

"I knowwwww," I half cried, half hiccuped.

"Weird." Taking his finger, he poked at them to see if they were playing opossum. They weren't. "Yep, they're dead."

Thanks Sherlock. I hadn't figured that one out for myself.

"I wonder what they would taste like?" he grinned and started laughing when I gasped horrifically and smacked his arm.

"That's disgusting! And so mean! Don't worry Abe and Lester, I'd never eat you," I assured my birdie corpses.

I stood by silently, as Boo took the cage outside and lovingly stuffed the birds into a bag to go bury out by a pear tree I had planted earlier this spring. I watched him dig a hole and place them in it and when he started tossing dirt on my precious birdie babies, I had to look away.

Poor Abe and Lester. I'm sorry you died, my sweets. But I'm glad you flew to heaven together. And I'm kinda relieved you won't take small chunks of my skin out anymore with your vicious curved beaks, I thought to myself.

Boo came back in and washed his hands and hugged me. "I'm really sorry love," he murmured as he kissed the top of my head. I nodded and buried myself deep into his embrace, trying to block out the image of my gruesome discovery from earlier that morning.

"I know what will cheer you up," he offered. "I'll take you out for supper tonight and we can celebrate Abe and Lester and the joy they brought to our house as they shit and chirped and scattered bird seed all over my floor." (A little passive aggressive I thought, but hey, he was offering to wine and dine me, so why not?"

"What are you in the mood for?" I asked, half hoping he would name my favorite Vietnamese restaurant.

Boo looked at me and grinned a wicked grin and said, "Well suddenly, I'm in the mood for chicken wings."

And that bugger my loving husband did have chicken wings later that night. Every time he took a bite he'd grin and say, "Oh Lester, you taste so good. Abe, I didn't know you were so tasty."

Let's just say the man did not get laid.

And I'm currently in the hunt for a replacement model. Not just for the birds. But for my birdbrained boy as well.