21 December, 2011

Then there was my birthday

See?  It's not that I don't care it's just that it's been mental.  Absolutely mental.  The kind've mental that makes you want to go to bed and refuse all contact with anyone who isn't bearing a packet of Tayto and a mug of tea.  
Well, it was my birthday last Monday and I turned, 39, which (it would seem) I have an issue with.  I don't mind the number thirty nine when it's on a bus but not when it's er, me.  
Had a lovely day.  Had a lovelier day when Ms. Karen Geraghty arrived at my door with a birthday cake.  For me.  I've had birthday cakes made for me before but they were made by the kids or by me ma.  This was made by a CAKER.  A proper caker.  Someone like me only with infinitely more talent.  There was a mini-me sitting on the cake.  And I look gorgeous.  It's very nerve wracking when someone is drawing a picture of you (Jesus, you should see how the kids see me???) so to have someone sculpt a little me??  Well, Wow.
I look beautiful.
The cake, ginger - my favourite, was delicious too.  I actually had one of those pangs that people get when handed a beautiful cake.  You know?  "I'm NEVER cutting it", "No, I'm NOT.  Never", "Go, feck off.  Get your own cake".
But I did cut it but only after I stashed my little me and wrapped the rose in acid free tissue paper and put it in a little box and put that box in my box of important things. 
Skived off school and work and went to see Santa (with me stopping at every traffic light to check me cake out on facebook).  Got into Arnotts (the only place to see Santa) and queued for a whole hour.  Only one hour???  Last year we were there for three!  He was wonderful, as usual, and he blew Oscar away by knowing it was my birthday.  Actually, Mrs. Claus told him it was my birthday, but once he knew it was my big day he gathered us all up and had everyone sing Happy Birthday to me.  He does it every year and every year I go puce with mortification.  You'd think I'd know what was coming.
Fiona arrived in with my beautiful Turkish Delight, that would be the niece, and .. . she just missed joining us in the queue and avoiding a two hour wait.  
So off we went to lunch.  To the IFI.  Myself and Himself's second time in two days???  Gorgeous lunch and nice to chill and take the kids to a place where me and he used to chill when we had no kids.
Then, it kind've went pear shaped.  I'd been given vouchers to the Wax Museum and thought 'why not?'  Originally the plan had been to go and see Arthur Christmas (go see this movie, buy this movie, love this move) but we'd seen it a couple of weeks back and . .. well?  The Wax Museum seemed like a good bet.
No. 3 flipped out.  Said the whole place was 'creepy', and he hadn't even made it inside yet.  As usual, No. 3's freakout caused no. 2 to flip his lid.  Two crying kids outside the former Irish House of Lords attracts a lot of attention.
We convinced them to go inside, promised them we'd only go see Spongebob and the Simpsons.  The lady on the door, seeing the state of the kids, never even tried to charge for the fifth one (family vouchers are always two and two aren't they??). 
I'd forgotten that wax works are basically adult size dolls.  ADULT.  SIZED.  DOLLS.  I was freaking out!!  Ugh.  
Then, to top it all, they slapped a Freddie Kruger-razer-handed-slasher-blood-n-guts-blood-all-over-mirror-and-on-floor-statue right in the middle of U2???  
Am still not the better of it.  Myself and No. 1 were brave and went downstairs to see the 'Irish History' models etc but ... argh.  Dead babies in the famine scene?  Or maybe they weren't dead but they had their eyes open and weren't moving and . . okay, so they're made of wax but they were staring.  Wildly.  Terrifying. 
Off to Butlers for Hot Chocolate and time to go home and think about starting more puddins and . . . we lost our Santa photos.  
Only realised later that night.  Damn.  But three cheers for the lovely people in Butlers who found them and are currently keeping them safe for us.  
Yay.  Happy birthday to me and . . . 39 is going to be a good year.

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