Happy Frickin' Birthday; Give Me Your TV

It really started off to be super swell birthday. I truly believed my streak of so-so birthdays was over. The evidence?

*Mr. Clairol got streamers, balloons, cake, cards and confetti. The birthday pent-fecta. (Geez, did that sound dirty to anyone else? I was going for trifecta but with five. That probably isn't a word and with good reason. Sorry. Random tangent. Let's blame Fergie, shall we? Good.)

*Andrea brought me a homemade birthday cake with fresh strawberries. I don't have a picture to post and I'll explain why in a bit. She also gave me the most adorable, hand-made garden stakes. They are so fabulous, I hate to put them in dirt. I will, mind you, but I'll hate every minute of it. Until I stand back and coo over how darling they are. She actually has a camera and posted pictures, so go visit her and check them out.

*I had a lovely visit with my folks and got a nice little wad o' cash for my garden project. I don't care if it's tacky. Money is my most favoritest gift of all. I am trashy. But my garden? She's gonna be bitchin'! I also got a lovely bit of cash from my grandmother, who stipulated I buy something very pretty to wear to BlogHer. Oh well, Grandma. If you insist.

*It was not my day to work at preschool. Enough said.

*I was going to have a nice steak and a stiff drink for dinner at The Outback with a dear friend and my darling hubby. It's not my favorite place to eat, but it's good steak, reasonably priced. Or more reasonable the Ruth's/Morton's/Chops.

*Y'all did not disappoint with the birthday wishes. In fact, Jenny is still doing the Running Man in the corner. She rocks the Running Man.

See? Wasn't it going to be a great start to 36? But apparently, the cosmos is lined up against my having a good birthday. The better they start, the worse they end. Because my little birthday train came to a screeching halt around 12:00 pm, when I pulled into my driveway and noticed my front door wide open and the screen popped off my window. My house had been broken into, people. On my frickin' Birthday! What the Fuckety-fuck? Who does that? And don't tell me they didn't know it was a birthday, because they had to duck the freakin' streamers as they came in the window!!! There were cards on the table and a cake on the counter. They knew.

They took our 53 inch TV (out the front door, mind you), my wedding ring, our camera (why there are no cake/stake pictures), our camcorder, some tools and a rechargeable flashlight that my husband whispers sweet nothings to when they are alone in the garage. Also, ten dollars off my dresser. Did I mention they trashed my bedroom? Yes, they did. Pawed through my lingerie (perverts), my jewelry (costume, so ha ha, you bastards!), my jammies (is nothing sacred?!?) and my closet. Oh, the humanity. THE HUMANITY!!!! I'm not sure, but I think they took a book of checks, so I had to close my bank account and open a new one.

Now, there were some bright spots. Andrea stuck around and helped corral the children, who were stuck in our vans while we waited for the police. She was awesome. SO, so awesome. So props to her. Major props. She is so getting a loaf of bread.

Also, one of the cops was a yummy, Billy Zane type, so that didn't suck. He had heard it was my birthday and was very sweet and sympathetic. Both the cops were actually great. So MWAH to the cops, especially Officer Sorta Billy Zane. Oh, did I slip a little tongue in there? So sorry. Musta been the trauma of my house getting robbed. Okay, I won't grab your tush again. Sorry, Officer. Geez, put the gun away. Cripes.

And my husband rushed home to help me deal with the crap of cops, insurance and what did they take. So he's cemented his title as Best Husband I've Ever Had. Not that it was close before, but this really put him over the top. He's also told me repeatedly that he's so sorry this happened and I still have Friday, so that's not so bad, right? Right. It really isn't.

Because I'll lay it on the line. No one was hurt. (Except my husband, but that's the emotional pain of a boy without his big screen TV.) It's just stuff. Nothing was irreplaceable, except my wedding ring and that was merely a symbol of a living, breathing love. We have insurance, so we can replace most of what we lost. And to the rotten sumbitches who took my stuff? Suck it. Choke on it. And I forgive you. Jesus loves you and I'm certainly trying. If I were Fergie, I'd write a wildly catchy, stupid lyrics song about the experience. Something about felonies being un-Fergalicious. 'Cause they are. As Un-Fergalicious as can be. The veritable opposite of Fergalicious. Okay, I'll stop now.

Now, God? If I could have a Fergalicious nice, non-robbery, birthday next year? I promise not to bitch if my husband forgets stuff. Just no crime, m'kay? Thanks. Amen.