...and now it's time to hear about my birthday. Or why my life really does need to be a reality tv show

Monday night London left me. Tuesday was my big thirty-three. It was time to get my groove on and be fabulous.

At work all the peeps went above and beyond for me. Truly. They brought in lunch, unbeknown to me. They bought me presents, they gave me money for my trip, and they all wished me well. Color me feeling loved and special. Then some of my students who I am also friends-like with, and who when their eyes are bulging out of their heads and their bodies are all contorted with stress, I give back-rubs, back pats, and back scratches to all in an attempt to lower their pulse and heart-rate. Typically my comment during these de-stress sessions is: you know, you can reciprocate anytime, really. To one male student, I said when he was bent over a table moaning and groaning "...this isn't sexual harassment as you asked for it." and he replied, "If this is sexual harassment may it never stop..." Anyway, they bought me a 2.5 hour massage. Complete head, toe, face, scalp, body massage package. Two and half hours of pure bliss will be coming my way. When I thanked the, "...may it never end..." male he said, "...we really appreciate all you do for us and you really make a difference in our lives and all the help you give us everyday; It was the least we could for you...." Ah, what a warm-fuzzy heart-felt moment (don't cry.) So, the day was fab-u-lous.

There is a key-word in there. Day. The day was fabulous.

Oh, look. More foreshadowing.

That night Nick was taking me out to a five-star super expensive restaurant for my birthday. He was late and I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. A vodka cranberry with barely any cranberry. Ah, dee-lish. Nick shows up and is stressed. His new job is killing him. I ask him some questions about what he expected to what the reality has been. I thought they were harmless questions and I was truly just asking. He (we are now seated) told me "... we needed to change the subject because he felt I was attacking him and that I was throwing darts at him because how many ways can he say, no." At this point my eyes start to water and the tears are coming. I hate crying. I hate crying in public. I hate crying in front of people. I hate crying in a darkened movie theater, let alone in a five-star uber priced establishment. I hate how much crying I've been doing. I am trying my damnedest to stop.

To no avail. But the important thing is that I am trying.

He notices, asks why I'm crying, I tell him I'm not and to change the subject.

There is a table of four women sitting right (literally, right) next to us. They are talking about poopy diapers, vomiting children, piles of laundry and the like. Not pleasant, but I can ignore it. Apparently Nick, cannot. He leans over to the table, and rather politely, asks if they can keep it down as it is not a pleasant dinner time topic to listen to. I get a small (small) grin on my face, but don't really acknowledge it.

First there is stunned silence at the four-top all female table.

Then it turns to a murmur.

Then a grumble

Then a small boil.

Then a rolling boil.

Then the steam blows off the kettle.

They start with, "I feel sorry for your children." "May you never have any children." to "That is so rude and I'm tired of having to defend myself in public against people like that." All I'm thinking is, Nick is a 52 year-old gay man who has had the mumps, there is no hope of children in his future, but I keep it to myself. I'm also thinking, "..and I'm tired as a single woman having to defend myself against people like you." But again, I keep it to myself.
The rumble escalates to the point that they call their waiter over and tell him about us and ask us to be moved. The waiter says he will see what he can do. The grumble is now a full on rumble and I, being the person that I am and trying to save the night, a.k.a. my birthday dinner, turn to the table and say very politely, "Look, we're just...." thaaat's as far as I got because next thing I know I have a wild brunette Wilda Beast (I am naming her Wilda and she was a beast) with a manicured Barbra Streisand-esqu nail being pointed in my face screaming...no, really, literally screaming at me, "Shut the hell up! Shut the hell up! I don't want to hear anything you have to say, shut the hell up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"...at which point, I'm still trying to get out what I am trying to say, but it is squashed by the wild looking angry mom with the pointy fingernail, "What part of, shut the hell up, are you not understanding? Shut.the.hell.up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (I think, I don't know. Maybe if you spell it out for me I would understand it better. But I don't.) Just keep repeating, "shut the hell up!!!!!!!" over, and over, and over again as many times as you can in the next few seconds that feels like a prolonged nightmare...oh, and have tunnel-vision so as not to see anyone else in the five-star extremely expensive restaurant but, I'm pretty sure everyone was looking, or at the very least, was able to hear what was going on...just a guess. Wilda Beast was loud. And angry. She was a loud and angry mom on the edge. Talk about, poor kids.

So, the hostess comes over and tells us we are going to be moved. She has my drink and our menus....you take my drink and I will move wherever you tell me to move. Nick and I decide we are just going to leave. The hostess tells us she is going to move us to some place without anyone else around "...so we will feel more comfortable..." at which point Nick says, "So we are being punished." "Oh, no. Just making you more comfortable." I interject with, "You had to hear how she was screaming at me, yet we are the ones being moved." She ignores me. I take my drink from her hands. It cost me $10, which I didn't have, I'm drinking my drink whether we leave or not.

We are apparently not leaving. We are now seated literally, in the corner of the uber expensive restaurant. Oh, did I mention I was crying earlier? Yeah, so that stopped during the whole, shut the hell up finger pointing escapade, only to re-start once Nick and I were seated across from one another. I try to explain, or ask, about the whole, "attacking him" thing. To which he says, I was throwing darts at him...and it just goes from there. Tears start again. I go into the restroom to try and compose myself and to become the cliche' I hate. I'm now composed. Well, I thought I was. I sit back down at the table...only to start crying again. (I so hate being a female sometimes.) I try to talk to Nick, again, to see what is going on. I tell him I think he is stressed and angry and somehow it is coming back at me. To which he responds with, he thinks all my emotions are very close to the surface and I'm overreacting.

K.

I ask if there is a back way out of the uber expensive restaurant....oh, forgot to mention this: four-top table of women spot us from across the restaurant and point and laugh at us....that was my cue to leave out the back door and get in my car. Cry all the way home. Cry when I get home. Cry myself to sleep hours later.

My birthday night out consisted of: one vodka cranberry, sans cranberry that I drank in three gulps, one sip of ice water, and moving of the bread basket, twice.

I've had some pretty bad birthdays, but I think the night of my thirty-three just became number one on that list.

Just to recap why my, "...emotions are close to the surface..."

Nightmare that is known as school and everything that has gone on with school this past year.

Not getting the job which was promised to me and having to create a new life plan.

Working one full-time and two part-time jobs, yet still not having any money. (all still while attending school)

Friend stabbing me in the back yet still working with her.

Having another friend tell me he felt I was attacking him when I was only trying to understand why he was stressed out.

Saying good-bye to Mr. London less than 24 hours before.

My dream vacation starts in 14 days. Fourteen wonderful days I can forget about all of this and everything else and leave my life for two-weeks....more on this in a later post.

(After telling this story a few times at this point I am now laughing about the whole thing. Let's face it, if you can't laugh at crazy ass people then your ass is just going to become crazy.)