1) Yesterday was my half birthday. What this means is that I am that much closer to dying much closer to 35 than I am to 34. Which for the record I am totally ok with because I am aging like a 2003 Brunello di Montalcino which is to say...FABULOUSLY. The thing is, when I was like, 5 or 6, and I couldn't go a whole 12 months without some kind of celebration in my honor, half birthdays made sense. And mom and dad did it up right: half a card, half a cake, half a present (1 sock, 1 earring - you get the picture). The whole day was ABOUT ME. And yay because I am all about the mememememes.  But at 34? Can you really even justify it?

Truth be told, it was a pretty sucky day (neither mom nor dad remembered to call *sniff* but then again they're *stranded* in the Caribbean while waiting for the Eastern Seaboard to shake off 3 feet of snow) that ended with me wearing a tiara but no pants and drinking just enough wine alone in my house with Psycho Kitty. The good news is I had heat so at least my ovaries didn't freeze and there is still the distinct possibility that one day I might have children. Or another psychotic cat.

2) At 34 and a half and a day, I sleep with a teddy bear. Yes I do. And I'm totally not ashamed to admit it. I haven't been sleeping with Teddy for long but over Thanksgiving I went home to visit mom and dad and one of the exercises that weekend (besides my standing on my feet and slaving over a hot stove for 48 hours straight to churn out the best damn Thanksgiving meal anyone anywhere has ever had in the history of mankind) was to clean the attic. And apparently cleaning the attic involved giant storage bins full of every stuffed animal I HAVE EVER HAD SINCE I WAS BORN OMFG (Hello Madela Lindy - my first Cabbage Patch Kid EVER) and for the most part I wanted to hose the bins and their contents down with Clorox and Lysol and Hydrochloric Acid because Oh Dear those animals looked like a breeding ground for Influenzaphoidulosis Fever and I actually thought everything was going to get burned chucked (once again: see Influenzaphoidulosis Fever) and so I rescued Teddy, one of the first stuffed animals I ever remember having, from the fray, and promptly handed him off to mom who threw him in the washing machine and then the dryer and then left him sitting clean and fuzzy on my pillows and OMG I regressed and have been regressing daily since then and who the fuck doesn't like sleeping with a teddy bear? Who?  Cold-hearted, soulless, puppy-hating, lollipop-stealing, butterfly-crushing, hate-mongering dragon breeders. That's who.

3) I sleep in torn sheets. And not like the B-52s sang about in Deadbeat Club ("we'll dance in the garden in torn sheets in the rain") but more like: if my hand or my foot moves the wrong way by even an inch, the 2-inch tear is going to be a 4-inch tear is going to be a 6-inch - aw fuck it: I know. I need new linens. Using sheets I bought when I was 22 is like...wow - do they even last that long? The problem is 2-fold:

I. I love these sheets. They are sexy, saucy Ralph Lauren badass boudoir bed linens sans competition.

II. They are currently the only sheets I have that fit the bed I am sleeping in.

I know. I should just shut up already and buy some new sheets.

4) I've had some physical discomfort recently. And while mommy bloggers across the globe will on occasion make mention of or reference that gift of child birth that keeps on giving, the only thing I have given birth to recently is a food baby. And yet, the expression "pain in the ass" suddenly has all new meaning for me these days.

Ok. My work here is done. Please feel free to chime in with an embarrassing tidbit about yourself. You know. So I'm not the only one.