Getting ready to start another 365 fresh days, I’m BAAAAAACK. I’d lost (now found!) the “celebrate everyday” mantra that I was so used to pre-Rapegate. Three years without any of my usual March references…”it’s my birthday month” or “did you know my birthday is exactly three months after Christmas,” (I mean, maybe we can say I’m god’s gift, OK?) to “we’re gonna do what I wanna do because it’s my birthday MONTH.”
YOU WILL CELEBRATE AND YOU WILL FUCKING LOVE IT.
Since I was a kid, my life revolved around Christmas, my birthday and then, the Iowa State Fair. Much to my cousin B’s dismay (I can only assume), I was born right smack dab in the middle of his birthday, therefore he was forced lucky to share his special occasion with me at every March family gathering. (He’s the super happy kid to your left in the pic below).
It’s all about meeeeeeeee. Sorry, not sorry B.
Instead of forcing myself to get it together and sorta celebrate like I have the last few years, I readily have my sparkly party stilettos on and am ready to s-t-r-e-t-c-h the fuck out of my day of birth. Like, for the remaining days of March. And also, because my birthday is on Monday, it’s really only fair to make it a birthday week.
I’m gonna huff, puff and blow those motherfucking candles out. Even if I light my own.
(side note, I’m gonna need someone to make a gluten-free yellow cake with chocolate frosting with one billion multi-colored sprinkles on it, thanks).
Huff.
Puff.
Blow.
I’m gonna act like my mom and document the fuck out of every.single.second of my special day. Like she did with my sweet pink and purple pony cake, accompanied by my lovely oversized spectacles and semi-mullet hair do.
Hello Gorgeous.
Documenting attire like the time she allowed (like anyone could ever allow me to do anything) me to celebrate my birthday with sweet wispy bangs and a crocheted vest that looked like one of my Grandma Vogel’s doilies she so effortlessly made.
Always so fashion forward.
More my speed these days.
I’m going to open every text, social media well wish, card and gift like it’s the one and only thing I’ve ever received in my life.
Holy shit! I love it! No, truly I do.
I will not be holding up fingers to commemorate the age of which I am turning because I ran out of fingers after the age of 10. (side note: how hilarious is it that I have a shirt on that says First Mate, First Mate?).
I’m this many today.
I may, however, enlist the peeps around me to count other birthday fun.
When you’re out of fingers on both hands, just count drinks.
When one of you does show up at the mini manse door with my gluten-free cake in hand, I am going to need a shit ton of frosting on it. And having a crown crafted of construction paper wouldn’t hurt either.
Paper Princess.
Then I may need assistance with eating the delivered cake if my hands are full with cocktails.
Are your hands clean?
I’m already practicing my ‘birthday adorable’ look that I mastered oh so few years ago for photo capturing.
Oh who me? Why yes it is my birthday. I’ll just hold this pose for the rest of the day.
It’s a tradition I am still working on.
Adorableness FAIL.
Work in progress.
I’m going to dance, jump and twirl (but not down) to my heart’s content, acting as if I have one ounce of rhythm somewhere in my body.
Mosh pits before mosh pits were cool.
I may try a high kick, which for me is possibly as high as my hip…if I’m lucky.
This seems to be the appropriate dance moves when we run out of fingers in which to count cocktails.
I’m probably going to invest in some sort of kazoo or party favor to carry around next week so when anyone asks how my day is going, I’ll just blow it in their face. Like a classy lady.
I’m fabulous. It’s my birthday week.
I’m gonna surround myself with my fabulous friends forcing in celebratory fashion.
The more, the merrier.
Oh the variety of bangs…
Did I mention it was all about me?
Along with gluten-free cake, diamonds, Louis Vuittons, rescue cats, anything sparkly, Iowa Hawkeye football season tickets, anything skull, stilettos, bubble bath, a new deep jet bath tub for said bubble bath, I will also be accepting birthday shots, wine and Skinny Pirates.
Birthdays taste so good.
I may or may not have consumed all liquids at this table.
Birthday Skinny Pirate in the house!
They just “get” me at Dalts.
This year, I’ll be drinking to the wise words my Gma always told me as I bitched about growing another year older, “having another birthday sure beats the alternative.” Jesus, it sure fucking does. I’ll drink to that!
Truth.
Now, who wants to celebrate with me?
Cheers!
CBXB
Cowboys and Crossbones 