Birthday Sh*t

I'm having a cranky snarky birthday. Daisies on my desk, cake in my stomach, and an aura of crabby ass attitude. I don't want to get another year older. I don't know how I got this freaking old in the first place.

So, I'm trying to make a turnaround now that I've left work early because it's my g*dd!mn b-day.

So, in the spirit of birthday-ness, here goes a list of the good stuff...

- I share a birthday with Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley who was born in 1797. A brilliant woman who wrote the great goth novel Frankenstein, which I really love and has nothing to do with all the Frankenstein crap we all know.

- My marido got up to make birthday waffles for breakfast.

- Last week on the bus, I told a co-worker about this older woman I know, who was greeted by a friend who said, "Every time I see you, you get younger!" She kindly put this in my work birthday card. She's also re-working my fortify-the-funk tattoo design, so someone can actually put it on my bod.

- Two CDs arrived in today's mail from different places. Kind of like birthday gifts to myself. Cliff Hillis' Better Living Through Compression and Matt Wilson's Burnt, White and Blue (which after a fiasco with Amazon, I was convinced none still existed on the planet).

- I remembered another co-worker telling me her mother learned to be a yoga instructor when she turned 70.

- I'm healthy, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah.

- I do have a really great job that gets me on the road to exotic, albeit underdeveloped, international locales.

Postscript: I just got an email from friend that sounds like she feels like a princess on her birthday..."I adore birthdays. I always want to wear a little crown! My mother used to bake me white cake with caramel icing."