Birthdays are for C-H-U-M-P-S

At a certain age (or maybe station in life), birthdays suck. No matter how you slice it. And for me, if there’s cake, that’s usually a huge step in the ‘this doesn’t suck as much’ direction. But no. Even that doesn’t work come April 7th any more.

I came to this conclusion over the weekend by finally adding up the cumulative bitchiness I have felt on my birthday for the last six or so years. Once that total was sent skyrocketing into the stratosphere, I made a decision. I’m just going to go with it. Know it’s coming and embrace my inner bitch as a celebration of clawing my way through another year.

The problem: When I turned 30, I did so in Tuscany. Since it is nearly impossible to be bitchy in Tuscany, I made it through the day with amazing wine in my hand and a smile on my face. And I think that’s the problem. Every year since then, I HAVEN’T been in Tuscany. So every birthday since has just sucked royal eggs. My advice: Don’t go to Tuscany for your birthday unless you are fully prepared to NOT be there for every subsequent birthday.

I should be clear. This birthday sucking thing is contrary to the amazing efforts of my friends and family to cheer me and fête me. Even though I’m a very reluctant receiver (of anything really), I still seem to end up with dinners scheduled, spa treatments, beautiful gifts, etc. And I always feel sheepish because I’ve been so grumpy in the face of it all.

Last year, I got smart and scheduled myself a spa day. And it worked miracles. I got to sit around in a robe in the dark for most of the day, only moving when it was time to change treatment rooms. By the time I emerged, I didn’t care WHAT day it was. Birthday-shmirthday.

So, then there’s this year. It started on Thursday evening when Lady Lou called for spontaneity. I went. She went. And apparently no one else was feeling quite as spontaneous as us. (Okay, Spark Plug was there, but she was a part-timer since her other group was also there and was pre-scheduled.) It was still really great to catch up with LL and I was kind of relieved to not be the center of attention. (I mean, the SoBo show has been on endless loop for MONTHS!) It also kept me from paying the piper all the next day.

Glad the piper stayed away…Turns out the hubby had a trick up his sleeve. He kept the morning routine and then surprised me last minute with having the day off. Perfect. We went out to breakfast, each had a couple of quick work things to do, then spent the rainy afternoon watching a movie (during nap) and dragging the girlies around Costco (post-nap). We capped off the evening with Easter egg dyeing and an interview with a potential babysitter. We really know how to do it up right. (Lesson: Rain and kids tend to put the kibosh on much else.)

Then d-day came and I got to have coffee in bed. Next it was time to change a poopy nappy. (That Beanie. Always thinking of mum.) And happy birthday to me. Off to ballet. I hold my Saturday morning meltdown in the car and yell at everyone. It was particularly high pitched due to said birthday being added to the regular Saturday morning stress mix. But, in celebration, the fam kept quiet and let me have my fit. We made it to the coffee shop and I cooled my jets by noshing on a cinnamon roll that tasted like it had been dipped in butter. I felt instantly better. Butter does that.

After coffee and ballet we headed off to brunch at…The Kitchen. (I mean, is there anywhere else to go?) Miss 6 pitched her fit there. I laid on the ‘it’s my birthday’ guilt and she shaped up rather nicely. Mimosa downed, next stop was Ten20. Waxing and pedi. The hubby wished me a ‘relaxing waxing.’ (He really thinks he’s funny. I should wax him in his sleep. See if it relaxes him.) Miss 6 joined me for the pedi portion of the outing and we were having a blast until someone decided to tune the TiVo in to Sex in the City on the large screens. We had to make a hasty exit. Miss 6 couldn’t take her eyes off of the sex scene flashback sequence. No joke.

Then, home for a nap while the hubby whipped up dinner. TRPL TRBL came over with the whole fan-damily. (Let me explain. Our dear friends had triplets a few years back. Ever since, I have threatened to buy vanity plates for their minivan with the above letters. The really funny part is that she alone was TRPL TRBL long before she had triplets. Just ask her mom or anyone who’s ever known her ☺.) We proceeded to get hammered while the kids redecorated and did stage dives from the bookshelves in the basement. A rockin’ party for one and all.

Now it’s time to focus. Santa Fe. Hubby turns 40 and he has graciously offered to share his celebration. One week. One week. We are so there. And it won’t be MY birthday, so I am sure to be pleasant. But if we have too much fun, hubby may be the bitchy one next year...C'est la vie!

OVERHEARD FROM THE BACKSEAT: “Whatcha gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside yo’ trunk? Imma git git git git your junk. Git your junk out of my trunk. Imma put it all in the yard ‘til the trash choo-choo comes!” Giggle. Giggle. (The 6-year-old version of the Black Eyed Peas. Now we can safely sing the ‘my trunk’ version in peace. ☺)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: My Humps. Black Eyed Peas. Because what AM I going to do with all that a** inside them jeans? (Miss 6 was on to something for sure…)