Birthdays, And How I Learned To Celebrate In My Own Way

Thirty today, I saw
The trees flare briefly like
The candles on a cake,
As the sun went down the sky,
A momentary flash,
Yet there was time to wish.


~ Donald Justice

On the other site, I read a post today from Kel, one of my favorite bloggers, about how Sept 11th is her kid's birthday, and since 9/11 celebrating hasn't felt the same. A lot of people on her post were saying that you must still celebrate, keep thinking of it as a sacred day, but I'm not sure that you ever can get past a thing like that.

The two weeks around my own birthday are marred with tragedy in our family - personal tragedy, nothing on the scale of 9/11, but tragedy nonetheless. Until this year, I have never had a birthday that was happy. I knew from watching other families that birthdays are supposed to be times of celebration, but I've never known one that didn't involve guilt for existing and a mother who wished she didn't. Even the years that she was fairly stable, and made an effort, I always knew that if the world had gone the way it was meant to then my brother would be here and I would not.

As a kid, I tried to celebrate anyway. We had parties, balloons, jelly cups, played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Laughed, danced, and hid the fact that ten days from now Mom would be wailing and telling her four-year-old (or six-year-old, or ten-year-old) how much she wished she was dead. And once or twice, in the earliest days, actually attempting it...but I digress.

It's not that I blame her. She tried. And because she knew that she'd never succeed in making my birthday what it should be, we had other times of the year that were really special. Halloween parties where we did all the things that you'd normally do on a birthday, as well as trick-or-treating and carving pumpkins. Christmas Craft Clubs, held every Saturday morning from Thanksgiving until Christmas, where my schoolfriends came over and each week we'd make a different Christmas decoration. (Paper plate Santas and manger scenes and baubles when I was five, stuffed felt stockings to hang on the tree when I was six, cotton sacks decorated with fabric paints and gutta and stuffed with candy or home-made pot pourri when I was seven...) Thanksgiving dinners, Valentines masquerades, Easter egg hunts in the garden or on the beach. Living with a bipolar (even if never truly diagnosed) mother meant that when she wasn't depressed and suicidal, she was on top of the world, rejoicing in the beauty of life and celebrating every possible occasion. And most of the time she was a good mother. A wonderful mother. We did all sorts of things, had all sorts of adventures, that most kids - especially most English kids - never dream of.

So with all that, the birthday thing shouldn't bother me, right?

Wrong.

I think part of the stress was that we always tried. Often trying to enjoy a thing, whether you like it or not, is infinitely more painful than just treating is as though it's nothing. The years I was twelve and thirteen, Mom and her then boyfriend agreed to let me have a huge party in a local hall, with fifty or sixty kids invited from school (and another fifty or sixty who gategrashed, LOL ) and a DJ. Nothing personal, nothing family-oriented, nothing that would mean I needed anything from my mother. That worked well. But by the time I was fourteen, I was missing two thirds of my classes at school, and drifting apart from a lot of my schoolfriends, and throwing a big party when the teachers were demanding to know why I wasn't attending classes seemed like a sham. So I said, no more birthdays. And none of the family accepted that, and the stressful cycle of trying and failing to enjoy ourselves started up again.

Then I started getting sick around or on my birthday. Stomach bugs. Appendicitis. Kidney infections. Pneumonia. Mono. People always asked how I could have such bad luck, but I never wondered. I may work in the medical field, but I also have a lot of respect for the effects of emotional state on the body. For the last couple years I've begged the family and friends to forget my birthday, treat it as just another day. They wouldn't. I explained the illness and the past tragedies politely, several times, to everyone who asked. They ignored me. I explained not-so-politely, and said that I really didn't want to be reminded of things that happened in the past. They persisted in asking me what I wanted to do, and showing up with presents and cards and telling me they were taking me to dinner, and told me what Kel's posters are telling her - that you have to push through the pain, and reclaim the day as your own. I threw a tantrum, scorching the earth with my anger, and asking everyone how they could be so goddamn disrespectful as to ignore my wishes when it's MY day. They told me I was being horrible and unreasonable when they were only trying to help. I bubbled over with rage and resentment for a couple weeks, and eventually shrugged and decided that birthdays are like funerals - they're for the benefit of the guests, not the host.

I gave up. This year I told everyone that they could do as many presents and parties and evenings out as they wanted, on the condition that they did it three months later, on the third of May. They looked at me strangely, and asked me a dozen times if I was sure, but they respected it. We had a lovely BBQ and loads of cards and gifts, and cake, and everyone sang to me. On my actual birthday, I went shopping alone and bought a couple of books and a Beyond Sudoku magazine and some presents for Mom, and everyone left me alone. I didn't get sick. It was a strange compromise, but one that worked.

My profiles online, store cards that give you gifts on your birthday, diaries - all but the most official documents - have my birthday down as May 3rd. I still identify with the Aquarius horoscopes, but for all other intents and purposes I consider myself a May child. February can never be a happy month for me, not after more than a quarter-century of misery. But birthdays can...you just have to think laterally.

So, Um, Yeah...It's My Birthday...

And I had a WONDERFUL day.

Nothing too active, since I'm too darn sleepy. I spent the whole of last night in a miserable, wired-up state (it's that whole exhausted = doped up thing again) but by about 6am I felt OK. I texted Light Of My Life, who has his Organic Chem exam today, and wished him good luck. He was panicking a bit so I talked to him for a while, and tried to remind him that he's a smart, competent guy and there's no reason he shouldn't do well. Well, aside from the fact that he's spent most of his time this year working and trying to placate his gold-digger wife, but I didn't mention that. *rolls eyes*

(Can we pretend I didn't say that last sentence? Cheers.)

He asked me what I was planning to do today, so I jokingly told him, sit in the front garden in my blue bikini and worry about you. And then I sent him a picture (although not in the front garden, at 6am it was too cold to go out there) to which he replied, "Haha, lucky bikini!"

I have no idea if that means, "Oh, a lucky bikini, just like you have lucky earrings / socks / hair ornaments," or if it means, "Wow, lucky bikini to be covering your breasts." Knowing him, it could mean either, or both, and I didn't like to ask for clarification. It's not a great picture; I'm still at that phase of chubbiness where I don't look good unclothed unless I use weird angles. Oh well.

So I obliged, and lay in the sun for him while he was in his exam. And then I opened cards, and presents, and ate cake. God, I love birthday cake, even though I know that all that sugar gives me a stomachache. Tony and Debbie and Christie gave me this beautiful rustic wood sewing box, and Mom gave me TrueBlood seasons 1 and 2 - which I was overjoyed with - and some really lovely black and royal blue underwear, which I'll try and get a picture of later. I think it's going to be too small in the boobs, but oh well, they'll just have to spill over the top. I got a check from Papa and Stepmama, but of course I had to deposit that back in February when they sent it to me, or it'd be out of date by now.

I'm supposed to be going to dinner with Ma now, although my stomach has been acting up a little bit, and I'm not sure if I should put it off for a few days. I'll see how I am in a couple minutes.

And of course the party is on Sunday. I'm still a little nervous, but things seem to be coming together - Tony and Debbie are coming, and he said he'd try and bring the big BBQ round tomorrow so I don't have to go buy one, and Ma said she'd make a vegetable pancake bake and a potato salad and an apple cobbler, and I have affirmative responses from a handful of people, plus a couple nos (Ricky can't afford the train fare, Zia is visiting a cousin that week and Ellie, my best girlfriend, has to put her doggie down - very sad) plus one or two who aren't sure yet. Curt says definitely yes, although you can't ever be quite sure of him until the moment he turns up, so that'll be really nice; I haven't seen him in a couple months.

Yeah, I'm still worrying a bit, but I'm remembering to breathe.

So yeah, that's about it. It was a nice day, aside from the stomachaches. Although - the weather reports are now saying that Sunday we'll have rain. After I deliberately chose Sunday instead of Saturday because it was supposed to be the best weather of the week. Bastards.

(I'm not sure who are the bastards...the weather sprites, maybe?)

But I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I wish you were going to be here, though.

Birthdays, Bitchiness And BBQs (Allowing For Weather)

[Looking at this a year on makes me cry. Gah.]

My other damn blog still hasn't set itself up, and I keep being lured back here.

The Man Who Is Not My Boyfriend (Cameron) and I had a fight the other night, or as much of a fight as we ever have. Our arguments always follow the same pattern: he (the calm, collected, logical, occasionally autocratic party) makes a statement that I (the emotional, instinctive, occasionally-prone-to-overreaction party) take offense to. We talk it out, him in a peaceful way, me with flying hand gestures and just a hint of a Spanish accent, and in the end he willingly apologizes for making a blanket statement and I grudgingly admit that there's more than a grain of truth in it.

So the other night he said to me, You treat your friends like children. And I put my hands on my hips and glared at him and said, I bloody well do not.

Yeah, he continued, you do. And they might have needed it ten years ago, but they don't need it now.

You- you- you CAD! I spluttered. (Note: he gets really annoyed at me when I use this term, because his initials are C.A.D. and he's hated them ever since he was a kid, but sometimes when I get riled up I forget that I'm not supposed to hit below the belt, and use it to try and force him to react with something other than amused detachment. I know I shouldn't, and yet I occasionally do.) That's a horrible thing to say!

Babe, I'm not trying to be horrible, he said. But you need to stop. You spend so much time looking after people who don't need to be looked after, you forget to take care of yourself. You're in your mid-twenties, and you're already going gray because you take everyone's stresses onto you.

(At this point I slapped his hand away from me. He knows how to hit below the belt, too. Mentioning my gray hair...dammit, that's just low.)

I don't have any control over what I feel, I reminded him. You knew that when you met me.

True enough, he told me, but you can control what you do. I'm not telling you that you need to stop giving people your time, but you do need to stop babying them. What were you saying a few months ago, when you were bitching about your family coddling you? Something about wondering why people think that occasional humiliations and hurt feelings are fatal?

(The nerve of him, using my own words against me. Asshole.)

To which I responded peevishly, Why the hell are you bringing this up NOW?

Because you're doing it again, dummy, he said. You're panicking over this whole birthday thing, and have been since you decided to have people over. You think that your groups of friends aren't going to mix well, and people are going to have arguments, and offend each other.

But- but- they WILL! I cried, getting quite emotional at this point. I know my friends! They're nice people, but they don't all know that about each other. They don't know that Christie is passionate and loyal, but has very strong convictions about everything, and will stick to them even when she's wrong. They don't know that B has such an open heart that she trusts too many people, and then when they let her down she sometimes holds it against people who remind her of them. They don't know that Sash has spent the majority of her life having to prove to men that she's just as good as they are, and sometimes assumes that she still has to to every man she meets. They don't know that Ricky says things that he doesn't really mean to get a laugh, because he still feels like the kid who thought his only good quality was the ability to amuse people with mocking. They don't know that Curt is so protective of me that he gets overzealous about defending me from perceived threats, and may go into attack mode when someone teases me.

So, logical as The Man is, he asked me, Well, what's the worst that can happen?

They can offend each other, I said, sticking out my bottom lip in a pout. They can hurt each others feelings. Someone will inadvertently say something racist or homophobic or misandric or otherwise stupid, and someone will be hurt and angry.

And? They're adults, they can handle it. If they hate each other, they don't ever have to see each other again, they're from all different parts of the country. If they offend each other, you just don't invite them all to the same party again. At this point, he sat down on the bed and stroked my hair. What are you really worried about, babe? he asked me.

I don't know...that they'll hold it against me, for putting them in a situation like that, and then they won't like me anymore.

The Man gave me a hug, and laughed a bit, so I socked him in the arm. Not hard though, since I wasn't really mad anymore. This is what I'm talking about, silly, he said. You treat them like they're still angst-ridden teenagers who are going to react like children. You got so excited when you joined that site of yours, and met Bubbles and the Kid, and AirForce, and diablophallus, and all the other people you haven't met in person yet, because they were these incredible people who behaved like mature adults. But you've been so caught up with that, and you've stayed away from friends for so long, only seeing them for an hour here and there, that you haven't realised that your outside friends are now grown-ups too. Remember what you were saying about Becki last time you went skating, how pleased you were at how confident she is now, both professionally and as a person? Remember how surprised you were when you and me and Dom went to that club in Mayfair, and he was talking about taking his counselling diploma, and you said you thought he wanted to be a professional footballer, and he laughed?

I nodded.

So what are you so worried about? You think your friends are going to hold it against you if something happens that they don't like? You need to give them more credit. They're your friends, after all. I doubt that you'd surround yourself with people who are vindictive and hold grudges.

So, well, that was that.

So here I am, throwing all - or most - of the panic aside, and saying, fuck it. I am having a birthday party this year - the first time I've looked forward to a birthday, and the first party of any sort that I've thrown in about eight years - and it's going to be fabulous. This year I'm only expecting eight or ten people; next year I shall open it up to my favorite British bloggers (and non-Brits who can get here). Assuming it goes well and I don't die of embarrassment. Ack.

I have a BBQ planned. Just a small one, here at my house. Hopefully my brother will actually call me back tonight (I left a message a few days ago) to tell me if he and his wife can make it, and whether I can borrow their big BBQ or whether I need to go buy a couple of small ones from Robert Dyas. I shall "volunteer" some nice man, probably my brother or Curt, to cook the meats, and busy myself making tuna pasta salad and potato salad and green salad and a ratatouille pancake bake, and trying my best to make a pavlova and a summer pudding before throwing my hands up in defeat and going to buy a Delia Smith one from Marks & Spencers. And I need to work out some music. Dammit, I don't have a stereo, I always use my iPhone. And I need chairs. And drinks. And...

What the hell have I got myself into? I know NOTHING about entertaining, I'm the kind of person who chucks a bunch of people in a room and tells them to have fun. That, or I can cater a sit-down dinner party, or at least I used to be able to when I was 15. I do NOT know how to have a casual party.

Breathe. It'll be fabulous. This is your first birthday, remember?

Gah.

Breathe.

I'm breathing.

Friends: think you might come next year?

A Very Merry Unbirthday To Me, To You

So, you want the rundown of my day?

Well, of course you do, that's why you're here. Unless it's with the hope of seeing goofy pictures or random thoughts. I'm all out of those for today.

All benevolent powers be blessed, I slept well last night. "Well" being a relative term, of course, but I was asleep by 4am, which is fairly good for me. No checking FB or here all night. No compulsive blog writing. Let's just hope tonight goes as well.

So, I was up in the late morning. Beautiful morning, sunshine everywhere, birds quacking (gimme a break, this isn't Disney), everything really feeling like spring. Mom was restrained and only whispered happy birthday when I came downstairs, instead of making a big production like I expected. Papa and Stepmama texted me, but that's to be expected since I didn't tell them about the May thing. Christie sent me a big excited "Whoop whoop, hope u get loads of prezzies!!!" text and I didn't tell her to fuck off.

My dress arrived. It's beautiful. The only thing redder than this dress is my bank balance. So I tried it on, and it's too freakin' short! This is what comes of buying clothes made for normal girls when you're built like an Amazon.

(LOL, I just wrote "made FROM normal girls" - WTF?)

Possibly I can wear it with tights, or what do Americans call 'em, panty hose? I hate the things, but it's a possibility. Or stockings. If I have to wear anything on my legs, it's stockings and garters / suspenders - hold-ups don't hold up on my chubby thighs, and hose seems so unhygenic - but the tops might show. Hmm, something to think about. I moaned about it this morning, and Bubbles and LadyU both volunteered to go shopping with me - yet another thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons to visit the US. *grins*

I may still wear it tomorrow, though, assuming I actually get out tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then when I shed a few pounds, because I think the hem will drop a little. It's annoying, though - in the picture I showed you, the width : length ratio makes it look like it's knee-length, so I can only assume that the dress they photographed was like a size 4 (US 0).

However, the fact that I can now get into Jane Norman clothes is something to celebrate.

So I decided I'd better buy some groceries and birthday presents for Mom, whose birthday is on Sunday. So I washed, and got ready to head into town. Unfortunately I was daydreaming in the bath, and daydreaming = losing time, so I didn't get moving until the 3.36 bus (which was late anyway). Got to town, with NO idea of what to get Mom, a little bit panicked since I usually buy early, in the January sales, and I think it must have been ten years since I left it this late. Went to the Dorothy Perkins section of BHS, only to find that their prices have risen to ridiculous levels. Earmarked a couple of T-shirts as possibilities, but I don't really want to buy her clothes - I bought her like half a dozen items of clothing for Christmas. Went into Robert Dyas to check out kitchen stuff, and found to my disgust that Marmite are now making dishes and eggcups and shit. Wondered when Kidfos' birthday is, since he loves that devil's food. Didn't find anything that Mom might need except a wok - the one Tony gave her for Christmas has something wrong with it, some step that was left out of the sealing process, and every time I cook with it I get big black lumps everywhere.

Went to HMV (record store). Happy Guy aka Colin (he only told me his name last time I saw him; I'd been thinking of him as Happy Guy for months at that point, and still do) wasn't there, but I checked out books and CDs. Nothing in the book section that she would want that she doesn't already have, except maybe Tsotsi. DVDs are a possibility, but I know perfectly well that when I leave home the DVDs are coming with me, so it seems a bit tacky to give them to her as presents. CDs she always appears to be happy to get, but then listens to a handful of times in a year - my mom is not a music person. Or maybe she just can't work out how to use the CD player. I browsed anyway, looking to see if there's something I want. The only thing I can think of offhand is Elton John's "Rocket Man - Greatest Hits", and they don't have it, I checked last week. Cranberries, Coldplay, Leonard Cohen...AHA! I nearly bought her a biography of him from W H Smith at Christmas, that I'd forgotten all about until just now.

Headed to Smiths (newsagent / books / stationery). Searched through all their books. No Leonard Cohen. Drat. Went to Waterstones (big bookstore, hundreds of thousands of titles available either on the shelves or to order). Walked in the door, inhaled deeply - I love the smell of bookstores, they're one of my happy places. Realised I couldn't remember what I was in there for. Went back to Smiths, knowing I'd only remember if I stood in the same place. Stood in front of the shelves in Smiths. Leonard Cohen. Kept repeating, "Leonard Cohen Leonard Cohen" as I backtracked (or re-backtracked?) to Waterstones. Checked out the biography section. No Cohen. Checked out music. No Cohen. Discovered that they have an entire section, where the erotica used to be, titled "Painful Lives". Yeesh. Aside from the fact that it's replaced the erotica, this is just fine by me, keeps all that stuff off the rest of the shelves. I noticed in Smiths that every fourth title was something along the lines of, "Stolen Childhood" or "Why, Daddy, Why?" or "Please Help Me, Mommy."

(Aside: I get that abuse happens in A LOT of homes. I get that writing about it is therapy for people. In person, or in blogs, I see a lot of survivors of various types of abuse, and have the greatest respect for you all. I do NOT want to be bombarded with it every time I pick up a book. Books, for me, are for relaxation.)

In the music section there's an Eric Clapton book that she might like, but reading the back I find that it's really the story of his rock-and-roll days i.e. lots of sex and drugs and alcohol. Not my mom's thing (well, apart from the sex). Now, if they had a story about Clapton's pain, about the loss of his son, she'd eat that up. My mom and my brother love all those painful-life books. Mom and Tony are the opposite of me in this way - they have a great deal of compassion for Humanity in general, in theory, but tend to be impatient with people one-on-one, whereas I am a whole lot kinder and less judgemental when dealing with individuals than I am when it comes to the general population.

I ask at the desk, and they say they can order it, but do I know the exact title? Uh, no. And it'll take four weeks. No thank you.

No other bookstores in town except the second-hand ones. We used to have five or six, but since Waterstones (which started off Hammicks, then Ottakars, as the companies kept amalgamating) came in, they took all the custom and Alban Books and Paton Books and Methuens and whatever the fifth one was, have all closed. I go to the card shop to buy a card and some wrapping paper, and when I leave the clerk smiles and says, "See you next week." Ha bloody ha. She's not even joking, either - I probably don't buy fifty-two birthday cards a year, but I'd guess that I buy more than twenty-six, meaning I'm in there on average more than once a fortnight.

I check out a couple other shops, but by now nothing else will do aside from the Leonard Cohen book. I buy a heart-shaped mixing bowl for her in Paperchase. It's kind of a joke - Mom started buying me heart-shaped kitchen equipment years and years ago, which I thought was really weird, and then I kind of got into it. And now we have an apron with hearts on it, heart-shaped measuring cups, measuring spoons, chopping boards, cake tins, muffin pans, a whole cookie cutter set with different hearts (normal, linked, with an arrow through) as well as a cherub and an L, an O, a V and an E. A toast stamp that says I <3 you. (You press it onto the bread before you put it in the toaster, and then the pressed-in bit comes out lighter.) Somewhere there's a heart-shaped silicon egg ring for frying eggs, even though we eat fried eggs like once every two years. Tony and Debbie got in on it last year, and bought me four little individual Le Creuset heart-shaped ramekins for creme brulee or mousse. Mom has a heart-shaped cereal bowl and breakfast mug. It's totally tacky and totally glorious. Now she'll have a mixing bowl too, although it won't be easy to stir things in.

Went to Jane Norman to see if they still have the pale aqua handbag that I had my eye on. No handbag, but Lori's there, and I chat to her for a few minutes. She seems in a better mood than she was when she was living with me, thank God. Nothing for Mom there either.

Went to Wilkinson (mostly toiletries, hardware, a little bit of furniture). Bought a body brush for Mom so I can throw away the old one. I should have bought one from the Body Shop, where I get mine, but they're five times the price and I just know that she's going to drop it behind the bath or leave it in a puddle till it gets moldy. I come by my absentmindedness honestly.

Guys keep staring at me while I'm out. I check to see if there's anything on my face. Nothing. Are my boobs showing? Negative. They're not lustful stares as much as surprised double-takes. I remember a post I read this morning that says A F F has started advertising us as escorts again. I looked for my name, and didn't find it on an escort site. I DID find it under Orgy Cam Girls. I wonder if this is why the guys are looking at me, and nearly get mad, but instead I burst out laughing. I know a lot of people weren't amused by the last debacle with the other domains, but to me it IS funny, at least a little bit. I suppose I can afford to be amused, since I don't have anyone in my life who wants to make trouble for me (except a couple people who are currently serving time). But after all, if I feel ashamed of it I shouldn't be putting on cam orgies, should I?



Bought groceries. Went home. Blisters on my feet from wearing heels that I haven't worn all winter. Took another bath and sang along with Neil Diamond, just because I felt like it. Ate roast chicken and sausagemeat stuffing (ummmm, stuffing) and the Victoria Sponge with chocolate icing that Mom made today. Snarl at Christie about birthdays, which I feel a little bad about, but I think she finally gets it, and I did apologise for snapping (while making it perfectly clear that I stood by what I said). Ordered meds from the doctor's. Checked out Amazon. WTF? There's about twenty Leonard Cohen books, all with mixed reviews - even the ones that average four or five stars still have a handful of one and two-star reviews to them. Picked out the biography with the highest overall rating, and the CD of Jonathan Livingston Seagull music, which Mom's mentioned many times over the course of my life, and I've never remembered to buy for her. There's a Cohen poetry book with excellent rating, but that'll have to wait till another time. Paid the extra P & P so they'll deliver it tomorrow or Saturday, since there's no mail on Sunday.

Answered FB wall posts from various A F F members and my older sisters. My younger sisters forgot - no surprise there. Got reminded that even if I intend to leave my birthday cards till May, I need to open the one from Papa and Stepmama since there's likely to be a check. There is, and it's a third of the value of a cheap return ticket to the US. My fund is off to a good start. It's a shame I can't pimp myself out to 20 of you for $25 each.

This trip is looking more and more likely to happen, which fills me with joy. Every year Mom says, "This year we'll get back to America," (she's from Minnesota, btw) and every year something gets in the way - health or money, usually. She's estranged from her family - I'm the one who had to make contact with them a couple years ago, even though I've never met any of them - so we've never had a concrete reason to visit, i.e. a person rather than just wanting to see things. Stupidly, if she bothered to nurture a relationship with her family - it's only her mother she really hated, and she died a while back - we could probably move to the US and get jobs with the family foundation. My mom's paternal grandfather was a leader in the industrial world (and a good friend of President Eisenhower, LOL; one of my most treasured possessions growing up was Ike's sterling silver golf tee which I wore upside-down on a chain around my neck) who invented some sort of generator thing. I don't know much about the company, except that they sold out to Studebaker-Packard (in the fifties, I think) and made a vast amount of money, with which they started a charitable foundation. And who better to give charity to than the poor relatives, right?



Kidding. Sort of. I don't want charity, but I DO want family, and wouldn't mind a job. But Mom freezes at the thought of family the same way as I freeze at the thought of using the phone (more about this in the next note, I hope) and has been blocking me at every turn. Cousin Dave, who is now the head of the family, wants to hear from his little cousin, not from his cousin's oddball daughter who has pictures of her undies up on her FB page (which he politely ignores, and instead comments on the pictures of the garden). And there are only so many times I can make excuses for why she didn't send a Christmas card, and I signed mine from the both of us.

So yeah. I could probably form a relationship with my American relatives, and find a way to support myself in the US. A visit would have to come first, though. But I'm making plans - nothing concrete yet, but hopeful ones - to come at the end of summer, spend some time with my relatives, and then ramble around a bit. If not that, then just a week or two visiting friends. We'll see. Either way, I want to see you. Yes, YOU.

OK, I've talked quite long enough. It was an eventful day. Certainly not the worst unbirthday I've spent - not even on the top five, in fact - even if I didn't get any Pokemon in.

I do wish I had someone special to spend it with, but there's always next year.

And remember - May 3rd you all get to say Happy Birthday (again) and send virtual sparklers and balloons and cookies.

Shopping At 3am - Benevolent Powers Bless The Internet!

Curt is taking me out for dinner on Friday. I hope. It's my unbirthday* and he still has my Christmas present - as I still have his - and he said he really wants to see me. I expect we'll just go to Nandos or something - the days of invites to The Roof Garden and The Ivy are long past, since he's now a student again - but I was wondering if I needed to dress up. Y'know, just in case.

I decided probably not. Even though I found a lovely dress on sale on the Jane Norman website.

HOWEVER, today I saw a post on TheRedheadinHeat's blog reminding us that Friday is National Wear Red Day - so I thought, providence. The universe wants me to have the dress. So I just hopped over there and bought it.

I don't buy off their site often, because their sizes tend to run small - and they only do up to a 16 (a US 12) which is really more like a 14 (10), and I worry about things not fitting. I was planning to run into the store in Bond Street or Covent Garden last Friday, before meeting in the cafe, but then I started running late and didn't get the chance.

So I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it fits, and that it isn't horribly short!



So thank you, dear Redhead, for helping me make the discovery that it's possible to do something nice and look fabulous at the same time. :D

And on a more serious note, I strongly suggest that women who are reading this read up on the possible signs of an impending heart attack. They vary a lot from in men, and far too many women lose their lives because there simply isn't enough information put out there where everyone can see.

* When I say my unbirthday, what I mean is that it's my birthday (Feb 3rd - Thursday) but this year I've decided to postpone it until May 3rd (or possibly June 3rd) due to ill health and general mental unavailability. I will not be accepting cards or presents or well-wishes until May or June, to the utter disgust of my friends and family, and anyone (aside from Curt) who so much as says Happy Birthday to me this month will be treated to the view of my sizeable ass as I bury my head in the sand.