Tag Archives: Lambchop’s Birthday

Never Before and Never Again

Complain and ye shall receive! I had a truly fantastic birthday, cialis thanks in large part to the squillion birthday messages I received. Facebook is such a “this is your life” (when it is not busy being “this is my life”.) It was very touching to hear from childhood friends, link old and new friends, treatment one fish two fish red fish blue fish. Other highlights included:

And this:

They’re Smoking Cigars

Today is the much revered day of Lambchop’s birthday. I cannot be there with her, but I can only hope she is brunching in style and wearing her fanciest socks. May traffic part before her, and may hipsters spontaneously molt their beards at the very sight of her. Is a clean-shaven Brooklyn too much to ask for one special day? Also, there must be dumplings.

She is, after all, the Mary, and don’t let her tell you otherwise!

We all know she is lovely and inspiring, yet she is utterly impossible to shop for (do I get her more wigs? More doll heads? A clipboard? What?). After a few hours of cursing the personal shopper at Saks, I was at loose ends. So I got myself a haircut. It’s the least I can do since she’s the one that has to look at me!

XXOO!!!!!! We and all the other personalities love you, Lambie! What would we do without you?  We miss you, Boddddyyyyyyy!

Silver BALLS

I have a child I have to keep routinely somewhat entertained so she doesn’t eat my eyes. She used to be a baby, and now she is not, and thus horizons broaden. We just finished painting our own Christmas balls, it’s beginning to look a lot like. Then I read the directions, and it seems I should have had us do this in a well-ventilated area. Oops! No wonder things feel a bit woozy. Well, if it’s the last thing I do, I will post to Vomitola. Viva balls!

Tomorrow is the annual FIESTA DE LAMBCHOP. I am on a major memory lane kick, as is my right when I have 7 years of content in the can, so here are some past ways we have celebrated Lambchop’s birthday.

2003, Huzzah, huzzah!

Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

Then we said it with ABBA!

2004, Joyeux anniversaire, Lambchop

Wherein we exploited animal labor. Never work with children or animals. Balls.

I am planning something big for tomorrow. As soon as I plan it. I don’t have time to hop the shuttle to New York for us to get matching tattoos.

Won’t you help me prepare this year’s offering? What word jumps to mind when you think “Lambchop?” If you don’t help, she is getting one of our fresh poison christmas balls.

Now someone is asking me how to work a glue gun. As if I know! ATTACK!

Nothing so Amusing as a spot of Musing

I long to be as special as the next Lambchop, but I haven’t made a practice of making a big deal about my birthday. As a small child, I would scream and cry whenever there was any adult expectation that I should be *happy*, as my poor brain was a storm of angst. Why not smash it into the floor?

Childhood birthdays were a time when punishments were briefly lifted, my mother would hang streamers, and my grandmother would bring a cake to our upstairs apartment to exclaim over every gift, “you should thank your lucky stars!” I wasn’t allowed to invite anyone, but it was just as well not having any witnesses to this sad scene, with its childish decorations and its querulous and often sullen subject (me). This joyless parade was repeated without alteration from the time I was ten until I turned 17. My poor mother tried her best, she bought me all the records I asked for. But where were the ice sculptures, pizza and trips to the roller rink with other kids? Wasn’t this supposed to be about ME, being FANTASTIC?

After leaving home, I generally looked forward to my birthday with a wincing, half hopeful expectation that nature would simply provide an outrageous testament to my awesomeness, without me having to tell anyone about it. Of course, the fates do not usually concern themselves with such arbitrary pats on the head for the neurotic. But when I turned 22, I found myself at Deli Haus, dressed to the ratty nines with friends after a night at le club Manray. “Heroes” came on the jukebox and I felt, with a sense of true happiness, that it was just for me. Everything.

In Berlin I finally had some smashing soirees. It was the practice there that on your birthday, you owed your friends a party. We had a bar, a big communal house, roof terrace, and a very ready public. I got to wear a tiara!

In recent years I have pretty much just ignored my birthday. I am not turning 8, but 37, so I do not require a pony ride around the yard with John Wayne Gacy or a loft full of circus performers. Although a trained weasel might be nice. So alas and alack, it is upon us once more. I like Patton Oswalt’s idea about only celebrating on the truly special birthdays.

Anyway, now you know what you have to look foward to for the next few days, a lot of self-absorbed reflection on my history, perchance a photo of a cupcake? Attack!