I used to get all excited because my birthday is on Groundhog’s Day.  I mean, there was even a movie made about it…how much more official can you get?

But, I say “used to” because somewhere along the way, calendar companies slowly began purposefully forgetting to add said über (umlaute shout out to you Germans!) important holiday to the little date box marked February 2nd and soon people would look at me all, “Huh? Did you just invent that? Groundhog’s Day? What? I am confused?” when I would proclaim that my birthday was on Groundhog’s Day. 

*Massive sigh*

I mean really, people. We celebrate the tiny dude in diapers who shoots lethal arrows at people’s asses, some guy named Columbus who *discovered* America…though, let’s all be honest with ourselves, technically, I’m pretty sure Native Americans were here first.  The difference?  They weren’t all, “Look at me! I FOUND SOMETHING! Now, how can I fuck it all up?” And let’s not forget the evening we stole from Europe that we somehow interpreted as an evening to collect incredible amounts of sugar in a plastic pumpkin or a Spongebob pillowcase – whatever your tiny frame can handle lugging around for an hour.  You know, the night deemed “Eve Most Likely To Come In Contact With Spirits.”  Like, demons, yo.

Is it because the groundhog has bucked teeth and burrows underground?  Or because someone gave him a name like Punxsutawney that is both asinine and impossible to pronounce? Because technically, that isn’t even his fault. Or because he’s *kind of* a hermit, only popping out once a year to bestow really awesome or super shitty news? 

Because to me that sounds like discrimination.  And no one wants a lawsuit. 

I’m talking to you, calendar people. 

The groundhog is probably just gathering evidence of said unfair treatment…but he’s coming…full-on with a three-piece suit, tiny spectacles that make him look way smarter than you and a super awesome lawyer.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Also? Let me remind you that the famous, sloppy, honey-obsessed Winnie the Pooh, complete with his sorry excuse for a muscle shirt who is seen everywhere – including entire calendars dedicated to Pooh & Friends - set up shop in a tree and wanders around in the woods with sticky fingers. 

Which? Not exactly a good lesson in sanitation for his target audience: small children.

And FYI? I have no issues with The Pooh.  He’s awesome in that weird, left of normal, always picked on in school kind of way.

Where I’m bent is with the lack-of-recognition for the groundhog.  I’m sure Pooh would have taken him in all, “You’re just as normal as the rest of us. Here, have some cake and could you go pin on eeyore’s tail?  He farts every time I try.  Maybe you can hit the sweet spot.”

What I’m saying is Groundhog’s Day DOES EXIST and you (aka: the calendar people) should probably take some preemptive measures to avoid massive legal fees and just put the 14 character holiday back on the February 2nd box. 14 characters won’t break the bank. 

If it does?  You’re probably doing something wrong.

Also? It really is my birth date.  For serious.

And this year? I turn old. 

Well, old for me. 

Old as in way past halfway to 30. 

Old as in I’d rather just pretend it’s not my birthday. 

Old as in: 27.

I know.  I know what you’re thinking (including The Husband) – I’m not *old.* 27 is like the new 16, which technically? Should make me awesome and super irresponsible, not old.

But I can’t help feeling old when I feel like I haven’t accomplished what I should by now…at 27.  Tim (The Husband) tells me that I’m always trying to be ahead of the curve…and I suppose he’s right.  Who likes average?

Well, some people may love average – and that’s awesome.  I’m just not some people.

I’m totally strange, anal to the point coffee is my only relief and love to place ridiculous expectations on myself.

Because apparently I’ve decided I’ll never be satisfied.

A recent example of ridiculous?  I pitched a fit that would rival that of a two-year-old because I was intent on running 12 miles in 30 degree weather while getting all up close and personal with a 101 degree fever over the weekend.  A sane person would have rolled over in bed and shut the hell up.

But not me…noooo.  That would have been too easy.

Finally after about half a day of my whining,  Tim was flat out all, “You’re not going and if you do? I will never take care of you again if you get sick. Ever.”

I even threatened leaving to go and run about 10 minutes *after* he left.

(I know. I’m annoyingly relentless and somehow he still puts up with me.  Someone, award this man some kind of important, shiny medal)

Then I slowly convinced myself that that would have been a bad idea.  I don’t plan on getting sick ever, ever again but *if* I do?  I’d probably regret my running-in-spite decision when I’m in need of someone to wipe my ass.

And by the way? I never get sick.It’s like my sing-songy claim to fame. My “normal” temperature is somewhere around 97.6…so with a fever of 101, my body is like, whoa.  What the hell?

Everything ached like someone had beat me relentlessly with a meat tenderizer, I was pretty sure my head had spilt in two and my stomach had crawled out of my body to find a more hospitable environment. I had bone shocking chills that made me believe, in my semi-conscious state, that I had inadvertently made my bed outside in the rain and the raging fever?  It left me so disoriented I was certain I was dying.

Tim says I don’t know *how* to be sick.

And to that I say: I know *how* to be ::cough cough:: sick.  I don’t know *how* to be ::A ZOMBIE COULD GNAW MY FACE OFF and I would welcome the distraction:: sick.

Anyway.  I suppose the whole point of my rambling diatribe is that this year, I think I should actually learn something important and useful.

Something like nuclear physics. Math. Patience. Taming a rabid squirrel. How to ask for things nicely.

I’m pretty sure that topic was covered in Kindergarten, but I think I was absent that day. Or daydreaming about unicorns.  One of those.

So, I’m going to practice on you, my beloved, though dwindling, blog friends.

This year for my birthday, I’d like to (nicely) ask you an easy, albeit semi-massive, request.

If you love booshy…or kind of like booshy…or even tolerate me like you would Typhoid Fever or Scabies…could you share said relationship with your own blog friends and let them decide how they feel about me.  I mean, you could even say something like “the super anal and disgustingly needy booshy wants you to read her birthday post.  She’s the one asking, not me, and since it’s her birthday, I am being nice.  So if she sucks, blame her, not me.  I’m simply the messenger who is trying to do the right thing.”

Here, to make it super simple, you can even copy and paste this. It’s even linked, because…I’m trying to be super nice and non-irritating like an itchy, uncomfortable sweater:“the super anal and disgustingly needy booshy wants you to read her birthday post.  She’s the one asking, not me, and since it’s her birthday, I am being nice.  So if she sucks, blame her, not me.  I’m simply the messenger who is trying to do the right thing.”

It’s not that I don’t want to do it myself. I do. Truly. I know you’ve seen a decline in my blogging presence.  It’s all the new-old job’s fault.

And  I don’t think anyone is more pissed than me.

I MISS YOU.

Please believe me when I say that I’m trying, y’all.  I’m trying to bring the booshy and also leave my booshy smears (aka comments) on your own blogs where I can.

And to potentially whet your booshy appetite, this week’s line up of posts includes work math and why farmville sucks for competitive people.

Also: if you were coerced here from another blog, thank you for stopping in.  You’re awesome for putting up with me this long.  It’s like you’re the only one who can eat 17 octopus balls on Survivor.  You totally win.