And they even still like me.

Last night I got painfully, annoyingly, only person in the room drunk. And let me tell you why...



So yesterday was the anniversary of my birth. Some might call that a "birthday" but really, I like the former phrasing because it makes me sound a little like Jesus. And anything I can do to be more like Jesus, count me in!

And I gotta tell ya, Im not usually a birthday person. Im not the girl that walks around for a month dropping casual hints as to what magical day might be coming up in November or leaving earmarked Tiffany catalogues around the house. Its just not my style. Also I have yet to have the catalogue thing work. Simon must not be a fan of overpriced jewelry. As much as I love being the center of attention (thus the unnatural affection for kareoke), I dont actually like the idea of anyone feeling obligated to make a fuss over me.

I started my birth-anniversary (see, dont you respect me a little more?) in three hours of traffic on my way home from my parents house. And turns out no one on the highway must have known that it was MY day because not one damn person pulled over in reverance.

When I got home, changed out of my driving pants (very similar in quality to eating pants) and rushed to work, I was greeted with a sign and prezzies from a friend, and a flood of facebook greetings, but other than that the day went pretty normally. Unlike everyone else in my department I did not get treats and a card, so I take that to mean that I dont have to invite any of them to my wedding. Which is a relief.

Anyway, later that night my friend H invited me over for a birthday drink before dinner. When I got to the house, (blissfully unaware of the fact that many pictures of me would be taken and that I should really take the time to look less like a discheveled urchin) I was greeted with a gang of good friends, decorations, dinner, party hats...the whole birthday shebang. Also champagne. There was a lot of champagne. After hugs and kisses and laughs all around, H made it her personal responsibility to make sure that my glass was never empty of something that neither smelled nor tasted too much like alcohol. Which, if you know me at all, is really where the trouble starts.

And its credence to how well my friends know me, because 5 drinks in the 80s tunes came on and someone handed me a spatula. My self control or my pride didnt have a chance. Fast forward to me belting out the worst possible rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart and insisting to everyone intermittently that they were not nearly drunk enough and would they please chug that beer that was in front of them? No? Why? Dont I make debauchery look classy?

I passed out in a bed that I only remembered when the coffee maker started at 6am to be B's. He did not look thrilled to have a bedmate that was both a bed hog, and wreaked of champagne cocktails past. I believe this makes him too picky because I was rocking a pretty serious case of Alice Cooper eyes which I hear men find irresistable.

In passive aggressive retaliation he has posted some pictures that are not kind to my self esteem. Or anyones esteem of me for that matter.

Before I could have a real intervention with myself this morning, I was greeted with texts and phone calls reminding me that despite my inability to carry a tune, and my affinity for shoving my fingers in peoples face holes, I am still loved. Maybe because I only get one birthday a year.