Good morning, Internet. Today it is:
- Freezing ass cold,
- My first and last day of work this week, and
- My mother-truckin’ birfday.
Either I’m getting really damn pregnant, or I had a little too much cake.
Thirty-two, you guys. What the fuck?! I never thought I’d be thirty-two. I can still clearly remember when TWENTY was my benchmark for being “old,” and I realized last night that this spring will mark TEN YEARS since my graduation. FROM COLLEGE.
“Did I ever tell you kids about the time I went to the Dave Matthews concert?”
I have had a lovely day so far (i.e., COOKIES FOR BREAKFAST), and I’ve already gotten the requisite phone call from my parents, during which they always tell me the same things about the day I was born (it was bitter cold; my Mom’s water broke at 2am but the doctor told her to GO BACK TO BED because yeah, I can’t imagine a time I’d be drowsier than after my water broke at nine months pregnant; they had to celebrate Christmas a week late that year, but my 3 year old sister was still young enough not to know the difference).
Of course, having a birthday this close to Christmas is one of those things that people pity you for (mostly because of the dreaded one-gift-for-two-occasions situation) – and believe me, I used to feel PLENTY sorry for myself growing up, especially watching my July-born sister live it up at her birthday pool parties when chances were my party would get snowed out AGAIN that year. And then there was the time I decided to stand silently behind my mother as she pulled a sheet of Christmas cookies out of the oven, causing her to accidentally burn my lip with the edge of the cookie sheet. All of the pictures from my birthday that year featured a huge red wound on my upper lip, which was all kinds of attractive. Although I remember my cake being particularly spectacular that year…
Ingredients: flour, sugar, eggs, and UNBEARABLE GUILT.
The crowning glory of all my pre-teen birthday parties was my 8th birthday, which took place at PIZZA HUT and involved paper crowns and a CARE BEARS cake – FUCK YES, my friends. And then for my 13th birthday, I had a surprise party at my house with all of my friends. I had gotten a Polaroid camera from my parents that year, so there are many blurry shots from that party of me getting down with my bad self in all my seventh grade glory.
[Which is to say, in a bad perm and glasses.]
My favorite birthday is, ironically, one that was technically my shittiest. It was my 21st, and while I had fun activities planned for me and my friends on the following weekend, the actual day of my birthday was about as boring as they come: working my holiday job at the mall and not even touching a drop of legally-obtained alcohol. Of course, the crummiest part of the day was that my boyfriend at the time hadn’t called me all day. By the time I got home from work that night, I was SUPREMELY pissed off at him…but when the phone rang just before midnight, I felt foolish for having doubted him.
I apparently subscribed to the Wynette School of Being a Fucking Doormat.
OK, so I didn’t expect the first words out of his mouth to be “Happy Birthday,” but, you know, mentioning it within the first HOUR of our conversation might have been NICE. Scratch that – mentioning it AT ALL during our call would have been NICEST. But no, Internet, he had totally forgotten my birthday. By the end of the call, I was pretty upset and he finally asked me what was wrong. Instead telling him to go shove it and hanging up, I just started crying and hiccuped out that it was my birthday. And he felt bad. REALLY bad. I can still hear him apologizing, which he did over and over again for about 45 minutes. And the groveling was…nice, but the whole thing was a pretty shitty ending to a thoroughly crummy day.
Little did I know…
By the weekend, I had gotten over the self-pity of my self-piteous little birthday, and was set to drink my ass off at my party. A party, I might add, that included this really cool guy named Brad that I had met the summer before. You know, he’s pretty damn cute, too. And funny. And…and…
(Also, that picture was taken EIGHT AND A HALF YEARS ago, my friends, oh my GOD)
(And I do not remember what it is like to have a waist, the end.)
For the next ten (TEN!) years after my 21st, my birthdays have been widely different – some had parties, some didn’t, most of them took place in entirely different states – but one thing was always the same: I always had the best present ever.
(That present being BRAD, for those of you slow on the uptake.)
(And I’ll go ahead and say it so you don’t have to: OH HOLY SHIT, GAG, SHUT UP WITH THE FUCKING SENTIMENTALITY ALREADY, WOMAN.)
(But it’s my birthday, so I can say what I want.)
(And I say I want cookies for lunch, to supplement the cookies I had for breakfast. MMM. What?! Oh, leave me alone. Miracle of life and such.)
I hope each and every one of you reading this has a great holiday week, filled with cookies and happiness and gifts you don’t have to return. Do me a favor and put a little bourbon in that egg nog in my honor, OK? And don’t forget to join me here next week, when the holidays will be nearly over and I’ll be forced to acknowledge that the next big thing on my calendar is A BABY COMING OUT OF MY VAGINA.
So, like, how sure are those doctors – on a scale of one to ten – that I can’t get my drunk on?