Oh, birthdays, the one day a year when self-celebrating naricism and mid-morning day drinking is A-okay! How I love you, birthdays.
Ridge and I have already gotten into a jaw-locked battle of wills over one of my birthday prizes. Aunt Lyndi sent me a box full of goodies, including Burt's Bees, Jelly Bellys and this finger-lickin' Ghardi (or however the hell you spell it) caramel-filled chocolate.
Ridge cried for like 20 minutes, whaling, "No, it's not your birthday. It's my birthday. Don't eat my chocolate! Don't eat my candy."
And I was all, "Back off, punk. This shit is mine."
And then I slowly sucked all the sweet caramel goodness out in front of him and he flopped around like a protesting fish out of water. But, I didn't care because he's not getting my birthday. I don't care how cute he is.
So, happy birthday to you, Shonda. I only have one more year until I celebrate my first 29th birthday. My Grandma Nita tells me the third 29th birthday is really the best, but I still have a few years before I am there yet.