December 31, 2012
December is The Month of Patti.
In other words, it’s the month that I was born.
I was born in a hospital, not a manger, but it was a pretty small, country-ish town and I totally wouldn’t doubt it if someone within a 1-mile radius of that hospital had some goat or mule in their family DNA somewhere.
And I’m sure that my mom would claim that she was a virgin at the time, if she thought that she could get away with it.
I will now pause while you all applaud the glory of my birth. Actually, you should applaud the fact that I have lived to see this many birthdays, what with the triple death wish of sass, klutziness, and freakish medical oopsies that I’ve got going on.
Yes, my mother’s uterus decided to give me the gift of being a December baby. If you know anything at all about December babies, it’s that when it’s our birthday time, we often get screwed.
December is so freaking busy with the holidays and everything, that the last thing anyone has time for is worrying about anyones birthday. If people can climb out of their Christmas spirals long enough to remember that it’s even your birthday at all, they will either give you no gift because they’re out of money due to all of the Christmas presents they had to buy, or they will try to give you a twofer. Ya know, the old “Happy Birthday and Merry Chrsitmas! Here’s your gift!” Yes. GifT. Singular. I have decided that if someone says that to a December birthday baby it should be socially acceptable to give them a swift kick to the ovarnads.
Birthday parties are total suckage in December. Nobody can come. Nope. That little Baby Jesus done stole your entire guest list. There are Christmas parties galore and ain’t nobody dumping the Baby Jesus for your stupid birthday shindig. Only one person holds all the one-way tickets to Heaven and it sure as heck isn’t you. That baby gets TOP priority and the whole darn month is his. Sure, you can totally kick little Sally Johnson’s lame-o December birthday party’s ass because you’re way more fun and your mom makes Rotel Dip and little party pizzas. You will have absolutely zero problem poaching her guest list. But If you try to poach the holy baby’s list, hellfire and damnation will be yours.
Ok. That may be a little dramatic, but I think you get the gist.
I don’t really remember too many of my birthday parties but I do know that they occurred because there is photographic proof and my parents can barely turn on a computer, let alone construct photoshopped “evidence” of parties that never happened. But those parties weren’t a huge deal or anything. They were tiny little gatherings for some quick cake and ice cream on your way to whatever more important Christmas thing you had planned.
The first party that I actually remember was my first slumber party. That was a big deal for me. I was turning 11 and my mom had finally given in and let me have a pretty decent sized sleepover. I guess we had sent out the invitations pretty early, because the turn out was surprisingly good. I was sooooo excited. My mom had baked a ton of goodies and we were all going to sleep on the living room floor and pig out and talk about important things all night such as the pros and cons of marrying Ricky Stratton vs. Derek Taylor.
I. Was. Pumped.
Not only was I finally getting some of the birthday attention that I so rightly deserved yet had been denied for so long, but I was getting it for a period of approximately 12-15 hours. For 12-15 hours I would be Birthday Queen. This was gonna be some good stuff. Plus, everyone would be talking about it at school on Monday, so it would be like my birthday was going on for days and days. I was gonna milk this for all it was worth and ride this birthday wave as long as possible. This would finally be my time in the sun and ain’t no baby in a manger gonna steal my spotlight. Not this time. Not with MY slumber party going down up in here.
Then about an hour into what was surely going to go down in history as the best slumber birthday party in the history of ever, someone came to the door to tell us that our neighbor, who was the grandmother of one of my guests, had just died. Not only had she died, but she had died in a horrible accident that was described in great detail to the room full of slumber party girls. There were tears. There were neighbors coming and going. The whole block was mayhem.
Nothing ruins an amazing birthday party like a dead person. I mean seriously. I can’t think of anything. Nothing at all. Except maybe two dead persons.
I did have other slumber parties after that, but only a few. From that day on there was totally a cloud of “Remember when that lady died during your party?” hanging over any possible future festivities. And to be honest, I think I was always on high alert and waiting for something bad to go down, because once your party is upstaged by a death, it’s kinda hard to let that go. It’s like, “Welcome to my party. I hope nobody dies this year. Good luck on making it through the night.”
After than whole unfortunate situation, I pretty much gave up the perfect party dream.
Until this year
Most of my Facebook readers know that I have a thing for Justin Bieber. And by “thing” I mean that I have a sort of ironic, fake, and totally fun-filled love for him. Seriously, that boy is just really fun to pretend to love. Thursday morning I had heard about the thwarted JB kidnapping plot that someone had been busted for, and I made the following post on my FB page:
I would like to state for the record, that I had absolutely nothing to do with the plot to kindap Justin Bieber. If I HAD had something to do with it, then this morning instead of hearing about a really poorly planned and easily thwarted kidnapping plot, you would have awakened to the sound of millions of little girls doing that loud, dramatic, wailing, hyperventilating cry, cuz if I was heading that operation, The Biebs would be gone, baby, gone. But let’s face it, his whereabouts would only be a mystery until maybe lunchtime cuz I would totally be bragging about it and posting photos of him with my Zombie Babies and maybe a few of him vacuuming or washing dishes. I am nothing if not (a) A kidnapping expert, (b) Really bad at keeping secrets, and (c) In need of some free housekeeping services.
So one of my friends told me that she was having a birthday lunch for me. I was meeting them at a restaurant, and this is what I looked like when I walked in:
And I looked like that because I saw this:
Since I’m not a rude gift receiver, I adored my gift:
Then he got to chill and hang out with his new brothers, The Zombie babies:
So I wanna thank these awesomely weird people:
Becky, Simi, Jenny, Stephanie, and Flat Biebs, for giving me the 11-year-old girl’s birthday party that I never had. I loved it long time. And thank you for all staying alive so that I could be in the spotlight.
P.S. Special Thank You to Bombay Palace of Sugar Land, TX, and our super sweet (and totally game) server Narayan, for feeding us some amazing food, putting up with our shenanigans, taking photos for us, making me a special Bieberiffic dessert, and just generally being awesome. xoxo
THANK YOU! XOXOXO
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