Is there anyone else out there in TVland who absolutely hates their birthday? I’m totally cool with getting another year older. Actually, at my stage of life, another year closer to Social Security is awesome. I’m also at the stage where I would like my birthday to be about what I like best – having a nice mellow day, perhaps celebrating with a few friends or family, but no . . . it’s always got to be a complete clusterfuck. For those of you who hate strong language, I apologize, but I really cannot think of a better word to describe it.
My family is prone to give over-extravagant gifts. I actually don’t need any presents. I don’t want any presents. I just want to BE — preferably out somewhere in nature. I’ll be sixty years old next year (how the hell did that happen?) and I have already decided that the dog and I are going to the coast. By OURSELVES! I’ll spare you the details, but this year I was in need of a sewing table for the spare room so I could get my sewing machine off the kitchen table. I decided to buy it when I went to pick my sister up at the train station in Portland — just swinging over to Ikea to pick up a desk I had selected on line. Well, I ended up exiting the store with my birthday gift — a table for sewing that is not at all what I wanted. I agreed to today’s celebration which was to meet at a local eatery for breakfast, but that too went south quickly as both of my sisters are of the sort (bless them, as they will save the planet) who do not want to drive and prefer to take public transport or hitch a ride with someone else who is going their way. This of course resulted in lots of “we’ll be late because we have to wait for so and so,” and “we’ll need to come wait at your house till so and so picks us up,” etc. I just wanted brunch and then to come straight home so I could get back to work.
I don’t like my sisters to visit my house. I know — what an awful thing to say, right? But, alas, it is true. I am not (and I’ve told you all this a million times) the world’s best housekeeper. My sisters, on the other hand, are OCD clean freaks who have to constantly adjust, rearrange, poke at, and move my things when they are at my house. It makes me feel like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, so I do my best to avoid having them here. And, on my birthday, especially, I would prefer that they not come over, so I don’t have to stress about the house. Well, not only did their travel arrangements necessitate that they stop by, but the other ‘gift’ I received at breakfast was the promise to come over and do whatever I would like them to do — clean, paint, yard work, etc., even though I have told them a million and a half times (and that might be a literal accounting) that I do not want them poking in my stuff. ARGH.
So, now I am in a horribly foul mood. Ozzie and I just got home from the dog park — the very best part of the day so far. I’m going upstairs now to turn the music up very loud and quilt. Maybe I’ll feel better after that! Do remind me to go somewhere by myself next year. I hate becoming the ungrateful bitch on my birthday!