The Day After

Why thank you!

Hubby informs me that today is no longer my birthday, that I must lock away my bejeweled crown, send the marching band home, put away the banner that proclaims, "It's my b'day, bitches," and stop forcing people to sing to me.  On Sunday, it was cute.  On Monday, not so much.  All day yesterday, I answered the phone, not with my customary "Y'ellody!" but "Hit it!"  My dad and brothers seem to be the only ones who understand this annual command.  They break into the most wondrous renditions of "Happy Birthday" you've ever heard.  Other callers just sound perplexed, not to mention hostile, like the lady from the Red Cross. "Hit what?" she said.
"Oh, sorry," I said, "I thought you were calling to wish me happy birthday." "Happy birthday.  Would you like to give blood?" "Do I have to?"  "Not if you're too selfish to think of anyone but yourself."  "Did I mention it's my birthday?"  "As a matter of fact, you did. How many pints shall I put you down for?" "Eight."  "Very good.  Have a nice day." Today is no longer my birthday.  Today is an important holiday in honor of the great MLK.  Milking my birthday, the day after I arrived on the planet and made it a better place, would be wrong, wrong, wrong.  So I'm going to do my best not to drag the festivities out any longer than necessary.  I should be done sometime in February.