T-minus eight days

We are slightly,-nay-moderately,-who-am-I-kidding?-intensely obsessed with birthdays in my house. I may have mentioned before (though I'm really not sure) that the typical birthday celebration begins with a few presents and a breakfast of choice, consists of hourly "but it's my (his/her) birthday" excuses and reasonings, and ends with a dinner of choice, the rest of the presents, and cake (made by me, natch). I'm really very comfortable with this arrangement and usually begin preparing everyone for it at the onset of December: "In theaters December 19th" "Hey, that's my birthday!" "Hurry, sale ends December 17th!" "Hey, that's two days before my birthday!" "We're going to grandma's on Christmas Eve." "Hey, that's five days after my birthday!" You get the idea.

Today my mom reminded me for the six-hundredth time that she did not know what I wanted for my birthday (other than clothes: I do almost all of my clothes shopping for the entire year at the end of it. No, it doesn't make any sense to me, either.) and I was all, "How should I know? I misplaced my list when Sean graciously reformatted my computer and now the only one I can find is from 2007, and I certainly do not need another dust buster or a second mixer to pack in the 'save until marriage' box. Why don't you just give me that new computer battery that dad ordered indiscreetly last weekend, the three novels we ordered together, and the clothes that we shopped for on Wednesday? Oh, and a hairdryer to replace mine that's one hundred years old and a hand-me-down. BUT NOT JUST ANY HAIRDRYER for heaven's sake, because that would be a surprise, and there's certainly no fun in those!" I love my birthday!