Today is Mum's birthday. She's old enough to know better and young enough not to care. Yes, Mum was born on Tax Day - but since I do my taxes in January, April 15'th is all her. It's easy to remember - it's when procrastinators walk around with a face like a cat's ass all day, but we're grinning.
I could tell you how old she is, but then I'd have to kill you. Also, she might disinherit me...and my whole retirement is depending on those Franklin Mint plates...
She used to be a human swizzle-stick, my Mum - skinny, skinny, skinny! I hear you in the peanut gallery, wondering what happened to me...my father's genes, that's what happened! Thank the gods she's finally got some meat on her bones - I was getting tired of fighting off hungry canines when we went out.
My Mum qualifies as a genuine, accept no substitutions, no artificial flavors, colors or attitudes, crusty old fart. I adore her.
Happy birthday, Mum.
*edit - Mum had officially requested I call her an "old bat" rather than an "old fart". OK, Mum - you're a crusty old bat and I still adore you.
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2 comments:
Happy Birthday, Mum! I don't want to die so I won't ask for a tally of years, but I will say enjoy the day, the cake, and hopefully the ice cream.
P.S. My mom is kind of a crusty old fart too, but I love her dearly.
Happy Belated Birthday, Gramlin!
(I just LOVE that moniker, I do)
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