Here we go Chiefs, here we go! (Clap, clap!)

Lest my subject mislead you, let me confess that I'm not really a huge KC fan (though I've been known to threaten labor and delivery nurses with their lives if they didn't provide KFC and I mean pronto, but that's another story. (And another city/state!) Jack got a l'il Kansas City football from Papa Geek that sings when you throw it. Smart gift for a 2 year old boy who throws EVERYTHING, no?
So my birthday was on Saturday. As (most) of you know, my birthday is usually pretty dang awful. It pretty much started with my 17th birthday and never really got better. I've had a few birthdays that haven't made me cry, but that's all--a few. The Boy tells me I set myself up for it and maybe I do, though I really thought this year would be different. It wasn't. Well, at first. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I have really great friends. Really great friends who see tragedy in the fact that my birthday is usually a day-long sob-fest. My friend Lisa took me to Disneyland for my 21st birthday so that I would be guaranteed a great birthday. (Problem: we left the day after my actual birthday which, like birthdays past, was miserable.) This year, our friends Jonathan and Virginia invited us to their house where they made my favorite meal and gave me tulips (and a pretend gift certificate) and it was great. Why then, you ask, is my birthday terrible every year? Because said events never occur ON my birthday. This may not make sense to anyone except for me (and even then it's a little fuzzy) but there's just something about my birthday DAY, you know? Take this year for example: two days before, a couple of friends came over and we had dinner and opened presents and watched Grey's Anatomy, good times! Then the previously mentioned dinner party the day before...then, on my birthday DAY--where do I start? That morning I went to my brother and sister-in-law's new house to give my opinion on paint which took a little longer than I expected, making me rush (rush with a 2 year old!?!) to get a baby shower present which was difficult to pick out, requiring me to go to 4 different places (2 of which were the location of said 2 year old's major meltdowns--middle of the aisle, kicking and screaming, the whole package) so I get the gift just in time to make it to the shower before it ends and the 2 year old starts complaining about a tummy ache, starts fake coughing which leads to real coughing, which leads to him barfing up mass quantities of orange juice. Happy birthday to me. So I drop off the present, get home to disassemble the carseat and have a day of cleaning and laundry ahead of me. Lovely. Did I mention my usually pretty great husband "didn't think" to get the day off? So I'm home with my lovely l'il boy and his temper tantrums and his barf. Nice. So you see, this is my problem. The days leading to my birthday (and sometimes after) are great and thoughtful and wonderful, but my actual birthday DAY is only important to me and those who thoughtfully call me to wish me happy birthday by singing to me, which I really don't love. Do I sound ungrateful? I really don't mean to be. These well-wishers are exactly that and I'm grateful. Were I not, I'd cut them off after the first note saying something like, "Are we at a restaurant where I'm wearing a silly hat and you're waiting tables? No. Why are we singing?" But I smile, and I'm a good sport. I fully support the birthday call--look forward to them, even, especially after a day like Saturday! It's the singing that I could do without. I have digressed terribly. I'll end on a happy note: after stake conference that night, my friend Jami cornered me in the foyer and dressed me with purple fairy wings, matching purple pimp hat and approximately 7602 strands of colored mardi gras beads. She finished just in time for the stake presidency to come out of the chapel into said foyer. Of course, cars were parked on the other side of the building so we had to walk through in order to get to the parking lot...from there we were joined by other friends at an ice cream shop where we enjoyed a lovely evening among curious stares and a couple crouched behind the counter drinking lemonade from intertwined arms...strange. Moral of the story: not a complete bust. I think, next year, I will either throw MYSELF a party on my birthday day or I will spend the day in a bubble. I have an entire year to decide.