I don’t like to make a fuss about my birthday. In fact, four years in a row, my in-laws were staying with us on my birthday and the first two years, they didn’t realize it was a “special” day for me until after the fact. We always did what manchild’s
harpy Mom wanted to, and even when she was aware, I didn’t have a choice in the day’s activities regardless. I generally give less than two fucks about my birthday to avoid disappointment, except for this year. This year I will give three fucks. I have a cake picked out (orange crush cake with chocolate frosting instead of glaze) and I got myself some markers, colored pencils, and big kid coloring books so I can practice staying inside the lines. Presents to myself for surviving another year. Manchild got a few things for me, even though I told him not to. I’ve been shaking the boxes to test my detective skills. I do believe he bought me a pair of shit-kickers. A large, heavy shoe box that thunks when I shake it? Gotta be boots.
For the markers…
For my mouth – Three sticks of butter and three cups of sugar? Oh baby. Come to mama!
Also, after much debate, both internal and with manchild, I’ve decided to color my hair fuchsia again. I can’t find a rulebook that states “Do not dye your hair bright colors after age 30”, so there you have it.
If my brace comes in before the end of Friday, The boy and I are planning to go to the Annapolis Irish Festival. Beer for him, wine for me, food, and live music. Admission is free for all military peeps plus one guest on July 15th, my birfday! I’m at least 1/8th Irish, 1/4 cookie monster, and 1/2 fish.