Yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday.  It was a great day.  I slept in, and then had a nap.  My hubby took the whole family out to eat at one of my favorite restaurants and then we went home for a Van Gogh A Starry Night cake (chocolate of course)!  What could be better?  Well since you asked…My grandson, Captain Precious, showed up in his bear hat and immediately started yelling for his Emmy.  We ate a little and colored a lot.  When it was time to go home, nothing would do but that Emmy go with him.  So, of course, I did.  We came home and checked out the chocolate cake and prepped ourselves for the eating before Bop and Daddy came home.  Once they arrived, it was very important that we eat cake first…after we blew out candles two or three times. (I think he’s perfecting his technique in preparation of his upcoming birthday.)  So we did.  We ate cake, and we ate cake.  Then we decided to open presents (which is to say my grandson decided we needed to open presents) .  Anyone who is considering opening presents owes themselves an almost two year old.  They open presents with a zeal that would add enthusiasm to a gift of toothpaste.  Luckily, I didn’t get toothpaste. 

Now, let me mention…if I haven’t in a previous blog…my grandson has a fascination that borders on an obsession with balls.  He loves baseballs, golf balls, footballs, soccer balls,  tennis balls, any ball of any kind in fact any round object of any kind gets the wide eyed, awe struck “ball” from the child that only a twenty-month old child can produce.  With each package a hopeful “ball?” was heard, and each time it was something he thought was lame.  A video, a sweater, shoes all held no appeal for this child.  The only redemption was one package that was wrapped in polka dot paper. “Balls!” he shouted joyfully.  At least he knew that one had balls on it if not in it.  More disappointment.  The next one up was black with pink and purple paper, nothing round to be seen but the little monkey is yelling “football, football” like his life depends on it.  The package is only six inches by six inches so I really don’t believe a football is in there; however this package is from my son, non-vag daughter, and the monkey man so I’m beginning to think there is a football in this gift bag.  I open it up and the little creep starts bouncing in his chair, “football, football,!!”  I open the little box inside, and he rips the charm bracelet from my hand and proudly shows me the football charm dangling from it.  A large grin covers his face and he very self satisfactorily says, “football.”  I have to agree.  It is indeed a football.  It is then that I realize that the whole gift unwrapping for him was just trying to get to the football that he knew was in there somewhere.  The rest was just superfluous. 

My hubby always saves what is in his opinion the best gift for last.  Well last night he handed me a huge gift bag.  Just for the record, this is how my husband wraps gifts…he uses gift bags and tissue paper…done and done.  As he was handing it to me he said “I think this is my favorite gift I have ever given you.”  Big words.  My husband is quite possibly the best gift giver in the world.  Over the years I have been given a lot of jewelry (all spectacular), several trips (equally spectacular), a horse (yes the hay eating kind), and various other uber surprises so when he says this might be his favorite I just can’t imagine what it could be.  The first thing I pull out is a  DVD of The Duchess.  Then comes a birthday Barbie.  Next out is a Barbie tiara and Barbie drop earrings…but I see a rolled up piece of paper in there and in our family that means that something was so huge you couldn’t put it in a bag and it had to be written on paper and placed in a bag.  I pull out the paper and read the words I have waited for forever …YOU ARE A DUCHESS…Oh hell yes!!   I am a duchess!  My papers will be arriving next week.  My husband has purchased a title for me.  To those of you who know me well, and you know who you are, I am still the same humble person I have always been.  The rest of you can refer to me as “your grace”.  That is the proper way to refer to a duchess.  I called my two out of town kids (since they weren’t there) to tell them there mother was a duchess and the oldest greedy little mooch immediately asks what that makes him.  Absolutely nothing.  He asked if he was at least the son of a Dutch.  Alas, no.  I had to inform him that my gain in no way impacted him…”it’s not about you this time.”   The youngest would have also inquired about the impact on her situation, but I told her the story about her brother, so she refrained.

I don’t know what my official title is.  I won’t know until I get my papers, and apparently a video that tells me how to use my title properly.  I bet its a small area.  You could probably carpet it…with a remnant…and it would cost less than $10 bucks.  It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably never visit anyway. Other than to collect taxes.  Then again, it might not be worth the flight for $1.98  We’ll have to wait and see.  Until then I’ll just Duchess from afar.  Pardon me while I push my nose a little further out of joint…(It’s good to be me!)

 

 

1 Comment »

1. 

   Your Grace,

   I think I ran over a cat named Duchess once. It WAS royally squished. The horror! The horror! Wait till hubby tells you about the back taxes on Castle Chickentush. And by the way the moat needs a new pump.

   Comment by mls — March 2, 2009 @ 9:14 am

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URL

Leave a comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.