I’ve never met a day I couldn’t celebrate, especially when it involves my date of birth.
Remember the fun celebrations of yesteryear, where all the school kids would line up on your special day for a piece of cake and a party favor?
Well now that I’m an adult (I use that term loosely) and most of the folks I know have real grown-up lives (you know, mortgages, spouses, babies, jobs – which I know nothing about except for the work part) it’s harder to get everyone together for one celebration. Which means that I streeeeeetch the occasion out for as long as humanly possible.
On my actual birthday, I was greeted with tasty lunchtime treats followed by a 9 hour work meeting.
Upon the adjournment of our conference the work boys wined and dined me, starting with a light-up cocktail menu that had to be pried from my paws when the waiter came to take it away.
The week continued with a surprise visit from my fave Real Housewife from the South where we celebrated our mutual love of vodka.
With wine and vodka under my sparkly birthday belt, it was time to party down with tequila.
As the handsome staff surrounded our table with song, I was also sweetly smothered in whipped cream.
Thing is…the hat was heavier than anticipated.
The burdensome headpiece proved to thwart all ability to sip margaritas with any shred of dignity.
So I decided to keep the crown down, taking it easy on the high maintenance neck.
What better way to round out the party spree than spending it with Ma and my beloved rum?
My Skinny Pirate loving ass took to the bar stool that should have my name etched in it at Dalts (my Nashville version of Cheers).
The bday week wouldn’t have been complete without a little March Madness and a bloody mary now would it?
At least my fabulous friend knew exactly what I would need come Sunday evening.
Party on indeed.