Yo Shawdy, It's My Birfday...

What does every Mom look forward to on their birthday? Spending time with the family, taking a bubble bath sans the world heavyweight title holder, and eating cake. Today? Check, no check, and oh yeah....check.

I'm in job-induced, single parent mode this week. No, I'm not really a single parent, but I'm the only one around with beating privileges, and the iPad can't call 911 should the short stacks seize control. I'm hoping this explains my daughter's message to me for my birthday:

"Mom, you're the best mom I ever had. You're just so nice and you let me eat cake for breakfast, and your big, squishy belly makes me want to snuggle. But I wish dad was here and you could go away for work sometimes. I really love him a lot, and sometimes he's my favorite."  Thank you, my dear. However will I fit my big head through the door come morning?

Then there was my greeting from Morgan Freeman.

"Hello there, I'm Morgan Freeman, and it's your birthday. You should party like it's your birthday, watching evil farty like it's your birthday, and you know I don't know the words because I'm Morgan Freeman, you're just some old white lady that fixes me cereal."

I didn't--and still don't-- know how to respond to that, so...there. I was hoping I'd get an encore of the performance of "Shawdy got them Morgan Freeman jeans..." from last night, but no such luck.

Then there was Larry King. "Happy birthday, Mom. Can you fix supper now? I want tacos."  Yes, because I definitely want to be sharing a bed with a bunch of taco-stuffed wind bags tonight. I suppose it would make me feel less lonely. Sorry, but if I want a shot in Hades of making it till 35 and a day, I ain't loading this bunch up with Mexican again. I thought dear 'ol Morgan was gonna blow the freckles off his shmeckle after El Mocha Jeters Friday.

We had to do our obligatory milk-and-bread run earlier, so we stopped by Aldi. I know, I know...they sell horse meat lasagna. But it's really cheap!!! And it smells better than Wal-Sharts produce department. So I get the kids bundled up and herd them to the truck like a six-pack of ADHD kittens.

"Hey, I'm in the front, butt hole!"

"NO! You were in the front yesterday, baby rump sniffer!"

"MOM!"

"MAMA!"

"Hey! Why don't I get to talk?"

"Alright, alright! Larry, you're in the back this time. Morgan, you're riding shotgun."

I swear Bubby transformed into a 90-year old white man before my eyes, peering over his invisible glasses as he mumbled "It's cuz he's black, ain't it?"

All I could think to say was "Well, Larry, I ain't ever seen you up front with Miss Daisy."

Apparently, it's supposed to be colder than a gravediggers butt in Fargo over the next couple of days, but no precipitation yet. I even did the good mom thing and sprayed our back patio down with water to try to make a miniature 911 magnet, I mean, skating ring, but we haven't had so much as vulture spit so far.

I just want them to call school off...before bedtime. I want to delay that sorry-I'm-late-but-my-mom-overslept excuse for one more day. Not to mention, I think it'd be really fun to play with the boys new paintball/dart guns in ice and snow.

So, today has actually been really fun. I crunk up the fire place, put on my fuzzy pj britches, burned a hole in said pj britches, and have repeatedly questioned why I haven't taken my vacuum cleaner to audition for the lead in a Lifetime movie. It really sucks, and apparently that's the only requirement.