Oh, another birthday.

3 is the number of personal completeness. I’ve got some of that times two now, or doubled down, err… mirrored. Duplicated! Yes, duplicated. Mother’s Day this year also marks my 33rd birthday. I don’t know if I feel OLD so much as I feel tired. And mostly of bullshit.

Can 33 turn you into a bitch? Because I’ve mostly been emotional (read: crying) the last couple weeks, and could chalk all that up to hormones too, I suppose.

And while the weekend was packed with fun (and delicious!) activities, I’m savoring a day of No Pants. And just me and AB. Hosting a party is too stressful for me. I’ve decided I can’t do it anymore — I’m of no help to AB (who does all the cooking and most of the prep work while I attempt to look not-at-all my age) and ultimately get super sinewy or snippy. I’m sidelined with anxiety and feel constantly rushed and OMG, NOTHING MATCHES! Yes, year 33 has turned me into something resembling a Party Pooper (or just a bitch and completely intolerant, but that’s neither here nor there). And then I’m sad again because the weekend is over, and I don’t get to see AB for another five days.

This is going to be a long week.

Regardless, we had a great group head over to the Wolstein Center to watch the Burning River Roller Girls bout. Afterward, we brought the gang back to our apartment for lots of vodka and bourbon cupcakes (which I definitely didn’t have enough of, for shame, Mel, on your horrible party planning skills). Whatevs. But serious thanks to friends who brought beer and a party attitude, while I brought just an attitude. I wish I could relax while entertaining, and yet I know everyone should be entertaining ME, but it doesn’t exactly happen that way, so I just drink and talk too much. I am left ensuring people are mingling, connecting those who have mutual interests, worrying about others who are new to the group and still finding time to hang with my good friends who drove in to Cleveland to celebrate with me and run-up-and-down steps to let people in AND GODDAMMIT I should have ordered two fucking dozen cupcakes. And my insides kicked me the entire time, so I should have worn my new Converse on my belly to kick back. Or all my protective gear.

It’s Sunday, and I have nervous stomach AND a hangover AND I lost my pants AND I probably talked inappropriately about stripper butts and kissing women and couldn’t remember if I had sex. Thankfully I didn’t show my boobs or push my cat out the window. But for some reason, he still wants nothing to do with me this morning.

I also now have ants, which have zero to do with roller derby. Who is left to clean all this shit up? ME.

So, next year, with or without a party, I would like a gift certificate to a cleaning lady. Sexy Maid outfit is not optional.

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