Happy Anniversary of Being Born!

Quote of the Day:

"Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diego, which of course in German means a whale's vagina." - Ron Burgundy, Anchorman

Once again, I have been neglecting my blogging duties for the past few months.  I find it interesting that I feel such guilt about it since no one really reads this thing anyway.  I mean, I have plenty of thoughts and should write them down because if I try and articulate them, I usually end up crying or sounding like an incompetent, emotionally unstable child.  Seriously, I think I sound pretty intelligent, and sometimes even occasionally clever, when I say stuff in my head.  But somewhere between my cerebrum and my pie-hole, my lucid logic somehow turns to “goo-goo ga-ga.” So why do I continue sporadically filling this blank screen with nigh-witty nonsense that no one reads and send it into the vast universe for everyone to read?  Cranial sanity, I suppose…

Well, back to the Lonely Blog drawing board!  I’m thinking about changing the name of this thing; I don’t share too many of my “adventures” on it, so it doesn’t really make too much sense.  Plus, I’m pretty sure my mother skims this thing from time to time, so I don’t think she wants/needs to know about my legendary status among the Midwestern truck stops and my penchant for Somali pirates.  However, I do take pride in my dorkiness.  On the other hand, my man insists that the term “dork” is a derogatory term that insults one’s intelligence.  On the other other hand, I underplay my intelligence quite a lot, so in essence, that indeed validates me as a self-proclaimed dork… on the other other other hand, (there are a plethora of hands around here), a dork is slang for a whale’s penis and I definitely don’t want to be associated with that… I wonder how many people didn’t want to be associated with San Diego after Ron Burgundy enlightened us with its real translation...

Maybe I’ll name it something in reference to the fact that nobody reads it.  BRILLIANT!!  

I finally thought of a subject that everyone can identify with: Birthdays.  Everyone’s got a birthday.  Everyone’s got their own opinion about birthdays.  You may hate them or love them.  You may revel in the obligatory attention paid to you on that one day of the year when you are the true star.  You may dread birthdays as a cruel, painful reminder from God that you are now one year closer to death.  You may not even remember it’s your birthday until Facebook reminds everyone else to remind you. 

My birthday is about a week and a half away.  And I like birthdays.  What’s not to like about free dinner, free cake, and some presents?  But it’s interesting how I can manage to take a concept as basic as birthdays and overanalyze it to a pulp.  I am the biggest stage-hog alive, but my hogginess is only limited to the stage.   Unless I’m performing, I loathe people gathering around and watching me have fun.  I like showering attention on other people and watching them have fun, but the thought of a bunch of people gathering around and singing “Happy Birthday” to me makes me cringe.  It’s intimidating, if you think about it.  One time, I was at a Hard Rock Café with some friends. I went to the bathroom and when I came back, they had told the waitress it was my birthday (it wasn’t).  She pulled me to the middle of the restaurant and made me stand on a chair while the whole restaurant sang Happy Birthday to me.  I hated it. I didn’t go to the bathroom in their company for a long time after that.  Not that I don’t appreciate the effort and affection, but I don’t like being the center of attention unless I’m commanding it. It’s weird. 

Unlike the winter gift-giving holidays, the gift giving on birthdays are usually pretty one-sided.  I feel like a freeloader when I get all these gifts and I don’t have to give anything.  I’m pretty confident that people like me are the ones who invented party favors; people who feel so awkward about not giving anything while they’re being showered with love and gifts, they have to give at least a little something out of some internal guilt. 

This year, I vow to not internalize the mechanics of birthdays and just enjoy myself.  I’ve got a birthday weekend lined up with the boyfriend, who knows of my aversion to being fussed over, so I’m covered there.  I also vow to ask for what I want this year. Not so much gift-wise (see below), but I think I’m too passive for my own good.  I need to pull on the Bitch Boots every once and a while.  It’s good to be assertive and I need some practice.  I’ll start with the following request… nay, requirement, for my family:  This year for my birthday dinner, I wish to eat at Joe’s Crab Shack and receive some baked good made with funfetti.

Afterthought:

I think the Birthday Person’s mother deserves some kind of shout out each year too for squeezing your sorry ass out of her vagina after lugging you around for 9 months.  So this April 21, I thank you, Mother!  ....And thanks for spotting the typo!!!