3 requirements for a good birthday

My birthday began yesterday with a birthday wish from A. She said it was so I could carry the wish through the next 24 hours.

I also bought myself a massive pink daisy and placed it in my favourite vase, a small cylinder one that hangs by a string on the wall.

There are few things I need for a good birthday: flowers (preferably hand-picked from a field), brownies (preferably homemade by my grandmother), and the company of a few good friends.

Tonight, I went for dinner at a chic Thai restaurant with D. and A. It was great to see the two of them together. They're the kind of people you can't see enough of, but rarely can rein in with scheduled plans because of their busy timetables.

But in the end birthdays are much like weddings or any other special event in that they are all just excuses to bring together all your friends and the worlds they represent.

I'm not a big fan of birthdays but I'll take my excuses when I get them.

The birthday haul

My family is a little bizarre, in a sweet way. Nothing demonstrates this fact more than birthdays, Christmases, or really any excuse for presents.

Tonight I ripped open my two birthday parcels from the homeland the night before my actual birthday. Honestly, I expected books, clothes, gift certificates.

Here's a glimpse of my actual birthday haul:

• A set of steak knifes.
  
• A nightgown.
  
• A package of cream cookies made by my hometown bakery.
• A card that shows a picture of a screaming upside down baby new to the world, getting spanked on the ass. Inside the card, it reads "From the day you were born, you were into the kinky stuff." That's followed by a comment in my mother's handwriting, "Your dad said we should send this card. If Oma can send you sexy lingerie then we can send this card." (My grandmother has a penchant for sending sexy underwear, usually as an an Easter gift, and also sent nightgown.)
  
• Five separate gift cards to Future Shop.

If a stranger were to judge me on the gifts I received, they'd think I was a meat- and cookie-loving, kinky girl with a gadget fetish.

Hmmm, is that so far from the truth? Probably, but I'd definitely let them think that.

What's a triple?

I once got hit in the stomach with a baseball bat.

Needless to say, I do not have an affinity for the game.

Tonight, I joined a group of friends for dinner at Casey's, hiked a few blocks over to Rogers Centre, and sat through five innings of the Blue Jays against the Oakland Athletics. Or the A's as they were referred to in one newspaper story... hence me thinking that was actually their name.

Fortunately, watching the game didn't feel like getting hit in the stomach with a bat. In fact, it didn't feel like anything at all. I don't know what's worse.

But, as with everything in life, it was worth trying. And in the end, I enjoyed the part of the game that involved hanging out with my friends.

They were endlessly entertained by my silly questions, such as "What's a triple?"

If I remember correctly, I used to fake injuries to get out of baseball when I was in high school. Though I have one positive memory of baseball when I was on a team and by some fluke managed to get two people out in one play, one on first base and the other on second.

God, I don't even know the proper terminology. If it wasn't for baseball insinuating itself into dating vernacular, I'd probably give a blank stare at the mention of getting to third base.

Hmm, perhaps I've been too hasty in my dismissal of the sport.