Happy Birthday, Vicky!

Today is the day.

Today is the day we celebrate the birth of Vicky.

It’s the Vicky’s birthday season. You might say that Vicky is the reason for the season.

… sorry. I’ve been writing so much lately my brain is mush. I just finished writing a lot about Christianity and now I’m writing about Vicky’s birthday… somehow, I combined Vicky’s birthday with Jesus’ birthday.

Merry Vicmas!

What?!

Vicky was born on this day in 1969, missing Woodstock by so much she doesn’t even know what it is. She graduated from high school at 18 years of age in 1988. In 1998, she turned 20, which somehow makes her 29 today… I don’t know how.

Her parents are Steve and Noriko, two people who, in 1968 at least, were fucking like bunnies. Vicky was born in 1969… and they didn’t have sex again for nearly a decade.

Vicky’s brother, Mike, is a Highway Patrol officer. He’s the only one in California who actually beats up cars.

Vicky’s dog, Suki, actually pre-dates me, when she dates me at all. (I’m sure you’ve been out with your share of dogs!) Vicky’s her favorite, though… although “why” is increasingly unfathomable. Vicky refuses to just give Suki a treat. Suki must sit, speak, beg, shake, make margaritas, clean the porch, and quote Proust before she gets her treat. And that’s not the weird part. Vicky insists on sniffing Suki’s toes and Suki sniffs and LICKS Vicky’s. They’re a strange duo.

And then, there’s the cats. Harley tries to french kiss Vicky. Othello screams at any opportunity, which Vicky contends is his way of saying “Hi.” If he were bleeding from both eyes, like red fountains, I’m sure she’d say, “He likes you.” Alacrity is learning. He stays far, far away from Vicky. He knows she’s crazy and he’s not afraid to, well, act afraid of her.

Finally, there’s me. The husband. I knew before I married her that she considered herself a “princess”… but I thought she was kidding. No. So, in addition to her regular manicure appointments, there’s the hired help: the pillow-fluffer, the tiara-polisher, and the keeper of the royal robe. Oh wait. No, that’s my robe. Vicky insists that I keep it inside of a closet and never bring it out because it might get cat hair on it… it was nice having a bathrobe, once.

But I was going to mention me. The husband. Only recently did I realize that I married a redneck. She watches NASCAR, eats pork rinds, and possesses not the least of desires to watch Ingmar Bergman. But I understand that. It’s my lot. She prefers the Rolling Stones and I prefer the Beatles. Granted, she doesn’t even know who the Beatles were… and I only base the supposition that she would prefer the Rolling Stones on two things: a) she prefers hard rock and b) she can’t wait to see the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

But I was going to mention me. The husband. Wasn’t I?

… I guess there’s no hiding it. I’m crazy about this redneck princess, something I never thought would happen in my life. I hope to grow very, very old with her so she can annoy me until I’m in my 90’s and she’s 40… or 50!

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

And, no. You don’t get your present until tomorrow.

(Doesn’t make it more of a “future” than a “present”?)