Celebration of Me

I don't believe in celebrating birthdays. Never have since my disaster of a 20th, wherein everyone but The One Who Got Away forgot (16 Candles has nothing on me). So it's no surprise that I didn't acknowledge the day I started wowing the world this past Monday.

Others had a different idea. Like my FTF, who believes I deserve more than just a special day but rather a whole week. A Celebration of MoC. (Who am I to stop him?)

Like Rafferty, who knows the best way to toast to another year of me is Chinese take-out and Bacardi and Diet's--and this amazing present (caffe mug and matching "platter"), which I casually mentioned I adored when seeing it in St. Martin.

Or PR Waif and Ady toasting to me with fantastic Spanish wine and cheese fondue at The Tasting Room.

Like drinks with friends at one of my favorite neighborhood taverns during cheap beer night (yes, there is such a thing and it's fabulous).

Or CP in Sales, who thought a big lemon cake on Friday would be a nice way to end the work week--and toast to me. Nothing says you're awesome better than gobs of frosting.

And of course, the big finale, cocktails with my saucy gal pals last night in Roscoe Village.

And joy! My birthday present to myself. Because my trusty other broke during a drunken mishap in Milan. Me thinks I will adore this one even more.

Me thinks my FTF is on to something with this week-long celebration. For while other people believe they're celebrating my birthday, I am celebrating having amazing people in my life--and enjoying the little things.

Unfortunately, I picked up some sort of nasty spring cold Friday afternoon (it something going around?), so last night was a bit of a disaster because of my snuffling, puffy eyes, and icky cough. Things aren't much better today, but I think I've encountered the worst of it. To be safe, I'm sitting in and doing absolutely nothing today (my liver thanks me as well).