The holidays can go scratch. They suck as far as I’m concerned. There’s grub, this is true, but this said grub is filled with some of the most disgusting ingredients known to man. And no people, I’m not talking about vegetables or canned meats, I’m talking about every known substance to cause weight gain by just eying the shit up. High fructose corn syrup, MSG, partially hydrated soybean oil, CHEESE….. UGGGGGGGGGGG. Save me now.

BUT, as with all distasteful events, the holidays eventually leave us to our quiet lives and then the real spectacular gets under way. The International Holiday.

What is this grand sounding event you say? Well, it used to just be The National Holiday but since I have married a Romanian, it has since evolved to The International Holiday.  And no, it can not be reduced to an acronym.

It’s my birthday. That special day that I look forward to every year. My day of birth. The day that the world became that much brighter. My favorite day of the year.

When I was in the process of divorcing my first douchebag husband, there was discussion, as there always is, about how we will separate the holidays with the kids. When I was asked if I would like to have the boys for my birthday, my blank stare and inability to speak were very obvious. It was like my brain hit a point where it was not able to process anymore. Birthday? With the kids? Are you crazy!? That is a definite big girl holiday.

The problem with  my birthday, and maybe this is actually a good thing, is that it follows the Christmas/New Year revelries, fairly closely. Like 10 days to be precise. And let’s just say that people tend to forget this day of goodness. That and the majority of my parties when I was growing up were snowed out or I received a LOT of regifted items and holiday inspired gift wrap.

But I don’t give a shit. Because it doesn’t matter if its only me celebrating. I mean really, do you need anyone else to make your special day special? Hell no, that’s what liquor stores are for.