Thursday, July 06, 2006

Good Intentions

Today is the husband-to-be’s birthday. Since he has to work tonight, I decided that we would celebrate yesterday. In order to adequately express my undying love for the man, I had planned on making him a birthday cake. With my own two hands! And none of this boxed crap for my baby. I was going to make the cake from scratch.

When I last went to buy groceries I scurried around the baking aisle like Emeril on crack. Self-rising flour! BAM! Confectioner’s sugar! Food coloring! He shall have colored icing! Icing that Did Not Come From a Can! Made the way my Nan used to do it, with a pound of butter and enough sugar to choke a horse! With sprinkles, even!

Imagine my displeasure when I got home from work yesterday and realized that I had left the recipe in my desk.

I cursed. I threw a fork. I tried to decide if there were any cake-like recipes that I knew off the top of my head.

There are not.

And then? I flopped down on the couch and took a nap until he got home.

When he got home I looked up at him from my nap-induced haze and informed him that there was no cake. And also, no dinner. I was so tiiired. And so sorry.

“Do you want to go out somewhere?” he asked.


“Well, I could go drive through somewhere.”

Then I promptly went back to sleep until the birthday boy came back bearing french fries and Chicken McNuggets.

In summary: I am the world’s worst girlfriend.

The Conversation Will Go Something Like This

After the wedding, you should stop taking your pills.

What's that you say? We need to pay the bills? You'd like to go shopping for drills? Strippers are good for cheap thrills? Oh! Surely it was the last one. Here's fifty in singles. Knock yourself out.

I'm 28 years old.

I am well aware of how old you are. Do you know how old I am?


Yes! I'm a baby myself! A sapling! A tadpole! I am not ready.

You'll be 25 this year. Besides, you always bitch about feeling old.

No, no, that was the immaturity talking. I am so young it's disgusting. I have no wrinkles or gray hair. Parents have those. I do not. No one has children at 25.

Yes, they do.

No! No one does such a thing. Besides, I can't be someone's mother.

Why not? You'd be a good mother.

:::twitch:::: What?

I said you'd be a good mother.

Listen. I would be horrible. I cut people off in traffic. I do not floss regularly, nor do I eat my vegetables. I smoke, and drink. I yell at telemarketers. I curse. A fucking lot. I charge things on my credit card that I do not need. I buy books and then don't read them. I don't rinse out the recyclables. I waste electricity. I am easily irritated. I can be selfish. And a bitch. I am a selfish bitch! My check engine light has been on for ten thousand miles. Ten thousand! I put my contacts in my mouth and then stick them back IN MY EYE. Do you hear that? I rinse off my contacts with my own spit! That's disgusting, even I know it.

Babies don't wear contacts.

I hate you. And you!! You don't put your dirty clothes in the hamper. You get toothpaste all over the sink. You can't cook. You couldn't even make the kid toast in my absence. Half of your underwear has holes in it! Your car is held together with duct tape!

What's your point?

That we're both impossibly immature, of course! Babies. Feh! Are you high?


We'd have to move. We only have one bedroom.

So we'll move.

We can't afford a kid!

We could if you stop buying all those books you never read. And we'll both quit smoking. That'll save a ton of money.

You want to raise a baby on our cigarette money?


Look, there's not ready and then there's Not Ready. I am, most certainly, Not Ready


Could I possibly talk you into a dog?