Twenty-five Years Young (Plus four)

As I awoke this morning in a groggy fog and tangled in the yellow sheets I realized with a start that Micheal Buble was not, in fact, in bed with me singing his lovely song at me, but that it was my tiny pink phone ringing from beneath my left boob. 

"-ello?"  I yawned into what I hoped was the receiver. 

"HAPPYBITHDAYTOYOUUUUU!" My sister, now known as "The One Who Shall be Killed" bellowed into my morning-sensitive ears.

"Agh!" I screamed.

At that exact moment, the power fluxed and my doorbell chimed - three times.

"Arrrrrgh!" I cried again.

"Um - kay!"  Summer said and promptly hung up.   I wandered, pink phone still clutched in my right hand, into the bathroom where I was greeted by a portly spider hanging out in my bathtub.

"ARRRRRRRGH!"  I screamed as I sprayed it with Windex (if nothing else, he will be shiny enough to spot later).

Well, here's hoping that there's some old wives tale is written that starts like this "And on the morn of her twenty fifth plus four birthday, there shall be a banshee (Summer) a chime (doorbell) and a large, not seen oft' in nature, hairy spider (the large, not oft' seen in nature, hairy spider) and she shall, by the eve of her twenty fitfh plus four birthday, become known world-wide as the most wonderfulest and wittiest gal in all the world."

Or - ya know - something like that.

Oh well, wives tale or no wives' tale - at least I've got this: