Birthdays Suck

It's my birthday today.

*woo hoo*

Not really.

I'm crabby.

Really crabby.

My kids are crabby too. I feel like they are trying to crawl up my ass and live there like a fricking annoying hemmoroid.

I actually yelled at Meg "It's my damn birthday. I shouldn't have to be yelling at you." What kind of sense does that make? 7 year olds don't get that my birthday should be a nice day, just like theirs is.

Before you ask, there is no particular reason I'm crabby. Birthdays don't bug me. Aging isn't too much of an issue...yet.

But it doesn't help that the presents wrapped all nicely on my dining room table in no way resemble the box for the new cordless phones I wanted or the 26 x 30 picture frame I asked for. Why bother to ask me for what I want if you aren't going to listen? Based on packaging, I assume it's a Bears sweatshirt. Why? you ask. Because I had to borrow one of Bryan's for a Bears party we went to and he was shocked to learn I did not have one of my own.

Yes.

That's exactly what I want.

A sweatshirt for a team I couldn't give two shits about.

But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he did really good. We'll see.

But I doubt it.