Something about bloody birthdays, I guess

Today's pointless photo is of apple blossoms. Hey, remember apple blossoms? How the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did it get so close to November so quickly?

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So. This afternoon on my way to my father's place I decided it was time to stop putting off the task of paying the Alberta government sixty-five dollars for the pleasure of a really bad photograph.

Yep. Time to renew the driver's licence again, which should tell you A) that I have a birthday coming up reasonably soon, and B) that it's one of those birthdays that ends in a multiple of five.

I'm so freaking thrilled that I can't even express it.

Now, normally I really couldn't give a rat's bum about my birthday. It was always more my mother's thing than mine to make a fuss over birthdays, and really? Rightly so. Birthdays should mean more to mothers than to their children. After all, mothers are the ones who do all the work (and believe me, I was -- in fun -- reminded every birthday about how much work it was. Something about being two weeks overdue, being induced on my father's birthday, but then being too stubborn to share a birthday with him, if I recall the list correctly). Mothers should be allowed to celebrate, if that's what they want. As for the children... well, I don't feel like I had much to do with the whole being born thing so why should I act like it was some sort of accomplishment on my part?

Everybody's born, right?

I suppose this all sounds a bit sour grape-ish, but it's not meant to. I honestly just don't have the need to make my birthday a big deal, that's all.

The birthday's conspiring against me this year, though.

You see, it could be considered a big one. Biggish. It doesn't really feel big, but it's a significant enough number that it draws attention. Makes people feel like you should celebrate it somehow. There's been murmurings to that effect, anyway.

Now here's the kicker.

The one year that She Who Doesn't Bother With Birthdays might actually be talked into celebrating at least a little... she's about to become She Who's At A Conference On Her Birthday.

Seriously. I'm going to be at a conference for work.

Bloody birthdays, anyway.

In a normal year this wouldn't have even bothered me, but just because this one's a supposed milestone I suddenly feel cheated. I'm rapidly hitting full-on five-year-old in the strength of my poutitude, let me tell you.

And I'm sooo not five anymore.

And my driver's licence photo was REALLY REALLY BAD...






Bloody birthdays. Who'd have 'em?