Happy Barfday

Sunday is my birthday of all things.

There comes a time in life when birthdays sort of stop being a celebration and start becoming a pathetic parody of itself to a certain extent, wouldn’t you say? “Wow, you’re still alive?! Let’s party!” These days I get embarrassed by all the attention frankly, and coming from me that’s indeed saying something. I’m not sure when the tide turned on that shore since I’m an attention whore of the highest order for the most part, but over the last few years the event has lost more than it’s share of sand from the birthday beach. If I’m in the center of the circle, I’d rather earn it honestly than collect it for simply surviving another year (and by “earn it honestly” I generally mean act a fool or shift into “Entertainment Mode”, you get the picture). Since it’s in January, exactly a month after Christmas, and because I generally get spoiled rotten at the feet of the flashing tree, this year my wish was to tie it all into our Superbowl festivities a week later. Since we’ll have a house full anyway it just makes sense to push it out a weekend, have the game as the focal point and sew “Me” day festivities throughout the afternoon/evening. It’s the pint glass atop an otherwise already perfect place setting.

Sounds good to me.

We’re handling the birth day itself from an entirely different angle this year; we’re going on the run, making a break for the mountains to get away from it all for a few days. She won’t tell me any specific details, but from hints gathered like carpet fluff after wearing new pajamas pants, that’s what I’ve been able to collect. A cabin, a glass of scotch, our son playing around in his portable prison and the wife in some saucy outfit. Perfect.

Have a good weekend.