So Mom took me out to dinner at the Burnt Tongue last night, which was nice.
She gave me two birthday presents. The first was a Swiss chalet music box that fits my cuckoo-clock collection. (I have maybe four of those music boxes now?) Antiquing find, which I found, and Mom paid for and hid until my birthday.
The other present was an HBC sweater, which was nice, but one I already have. She picked it up last Friday at the outlet mall in Mississauga. Less than a week ago.
Thought level = minimal. That's a big problem with having my birthday so close to Christmas -- it gets lost in the rush, until someone goes 'oh shit', and then half-assedly throws something together.
(And, as every year, knowing this bullshit was bound to come again, more than a month ago, I sent out an Amazon wish list, with maybe ten items in different price ranges, so they can simply pick something on the list. How fucking hard is it to pick something on a fucking list? Of course, if you leave it too late even for Amazon...)
Then, of course, I got to listen to Mom kvetch all through dinner on how she had to go back to the outlet mall to return this sweater. Her problems.
I really, really hate my birthday. Except for the flood of FB posts. Those I like. (And from high school crush Michelle McAdorey!) THANK YOU, INTERNET FRIENDS!
One friend on my fakebook account sent me this picture of my Natalia, apologizing that her beaded bikini was in the wash. She really gets me.