Moose in the Kitchen

When it comes to birthdays, I have all the maturity of a spoiled five year-old. A spoiled five year-old with an affinity for rum. I don’t know how many mojitos I drank, but I do know I woke up the next morning to find two empty bottles of rum, a dozen glasses full of minty sludge, and some very unhappy limes.

Happy limes:

Unhappy limes:

Uhh…. I don’t have a picture of that, but it involves desiccated limes waiting to be tossed down the garbage disposal. Rest assured, the limes are downtrodden.

There was also a cake, a cake with what the recipe claimed was billowy frosting.

And I wore a fluffy crown. Because what good is a birthday without a fluffy crown? NO GOOD AT ALL.

I do a rather stunning Molly Shannon SUPERSTAR! impression. As does everyone with two arms and a complete lack of dignity. I think we established my lack of dignity with the fluffy crown. And do you see those ribs? My god. I eat, I swear. In fact, I ate half of the above cake all by myself, billowy frosting included. The day I discover how to pad my chest with the meat from my thighs is the day I stop wearing turtle necks in June.

Everything about my birthday just screams class:

If there’s a message conveyed in the “fights bad breath” or the picture of a panting dog, I’m choosing to ignore it. But I was particularly fond of the careful duct tape application and cleverly concealed frying pan. (I am honestly not quite sure why I received a frying pan but I think it has something to do with some frantic scraping and a fire alarm a few weeks ago when I learned the hard way that when a recipe tells you to use a non-stick pan you should really listen.)

For god’s sake, don’t ask me what’s going on here. I have no answers for you.