It's that time of the year

Yep, it is indeed that time of the year for me. Birthday-time. On Thursday, this year. I was actually born on a Friday so I was the original inspiration for Jason in Friday the 13th. I'm scary like that.

I used to love my birthday. Being woken up at an ungodly hour by the sound of someone who's voice is like that of a whale mixed with a kid having nasal problems on a roller coaster, is allowed once a year. Consuming ridiculous amounts of cake without feeling that muffin-top looming is allowed once a year. Acting all surprised when your overweight aunt Mary tries to jump out from behind the bean bag, is allowed once a year and not hilarious at all.

Birthdays are a big deal in my family. Like so many other things.

The invitations: mostly verbal since my people have surpassed snail mail AND the Internet. They're that fast.

Lots of guests: you were only born once, Mom says, so you might as well take advantage of other people's kindness on that day by demanding presents since the one you got from them for Christmas, well, is now a matching set of 15. Thanks for (another) wine bottle stopper, uncle Shawn. We're just opening bottles of wine every time you come around since you insist on seeing each one of your stoppers. And watching you get ridiculously drunk at what stage you then take off your shirt and pretend you're part of the Village People while doing the Macarena. Fusion. Good times.

A sit-down meal: no finger snacks here, friends. My family firmly believe that we're not savages. And the fact that you now have your one hand free to hold your drink with sitting at the table and loading your plate with food at the same time is not an incentive at all.

The cake: you are not the baker of your own cake. Nor are you the chooser of your own cake. Never. That privilege goes to either Mother or Sister. They have a non-erotica policy. I once wanted a Playboy bunny cake, but instead ended up with something that looked like this:

And there will be no surprises this year.

This year it'll just be Chris and I. And the dogs. We'll be having the cake I chose, sipping some champagne while sitting on our veranda watching the sun go down and smile about not having to fish out cupcake wrappers from the toilet.

This year I'm turning such an insignificant age and it feels as though I'm stuck in the middle, in a liminal phase. I don't feel like spending money on being stuck. I'd save that for Chris's birthday since he's turning 30 this year. If and when I turn 30 and I'm still wrinkle-free I might consider letting the fam throw me a surprise party.

But until then:

What you can learn from relationships by growing plants and vegetables

I've never been good at gardening or growing anything. I tried growing a vegetable patch once. Instead of my vegetables turning out like this guy's, it looked a little more like this:


Needless to say, after eating one I ended up like this:



My plants died for no reason ... or so I thought. I'd water them everyday and after a week they'd just wither away. Only then my mother informs me to water them twice a week. So I buy a new plant. And water it twice a week. Meticulously. It died again. Only then my sister tells me that you have to water according to the plant and the plant's needs. Some are twice a week, some more. Some need a lot of direct sunlight, some love the shade.

Kind of like relationships.

I've had a few in my time. I've smothered them with water thinking that's what they wanted when in fact the turd was too lame to tell me that he liked little water and lots of shade. Good thing I killed THAT relationship after week 3.

And that was my main problem in relationships: the talking part. Just like plants some men would say nothing but just stare at the light thinking I was telepathic and knew that they were thinking McDonalds while I was thinking more along the lines of fine dining and dancing. But I have learned a few things along the line.

I have learned that saying to yourself this is what I want and this is what I like does not make it true, but only aggravates the feelings of self doubt and loneliness:

Brainwashing only gets you so far.

I have learned that trying too hard will not make it last any longer:

Plus it makes you feel bloated, frustrated and fat. Not sexy.

And I've learned that when you start pretending and belittling yourself to make him feel better about his little weener of a personality, it's usually time to bail. Even through the window if necessary.

Seriously, you don't have to pretend you never knew "Milan" wasn't Julius Caesar's last name anymore.

And that's how Chris and I made it. We ran through and jumped over all the obstacles relationships are riddled with, all while holding hands.  And when he went on one knee to ask my hand in marriage (I know, how cliché, but still fabulously romantic!) there was no way I'd give up that chance for happiness.

It'll be a year in April and the honeymoon phase is kinda over, but it's still good. It's better than good. It's great having someone to share your ice cream with while waiting for your order; it's wonderful walking around without any make-up on and not worrying he'll run after you trying to throw a sheet over your face from the horror of seeing your freckles and less than perfect complexion; it's pretty awesome laying in the bath and talking about his day and yours. It might be simple, but it's ... good.

If he'll hold your flowers while your busy with a pose, it's a good sign. Obedience: great start to any marriage :)