A Buhster Birfday

buh-buh-buh-buhster back in action after a long hiatus!

today's my birfday, and miss misc asked that i do a special birfday post. so, i thought i'd tell you a little bit about buhster birfdays.

i don't typically make a big deal out of my birfdays. why? well, because the two birfdays i can remember ever making any sort of deal out of, some sort of miscellaneousness went down.

my 14th birfday: got shat on by a bird. smack on my shoulder.
my 21st birfday: spent the evening on the floor of my buddy's bathroom sick as a dog and begging for burnt toast (sure, sounds about right for most 21st birfdays, but i was down by about 9 p.m.).

so usually i like the day to come and go with nothing really out of the ordinary. i get really nice cards and money from family and calls from friends. i'll generally treat myself to some sort of tasty meal. this low-key no-nonsense sort of thing works for me.

however, for some reason, i thought i should treat myself to something nice this year. i've been working pretty hard at yet another misc-filled establishment, and i've got one year left of grad school. so i decided to work a half day and then schedule a massage.

and that's where the dorito started raining down on me.

i lost track of time and left a little too late to take a bus to my massage appointment so i hopped in a cab. what should have been a 5 minute ride doubled in time. why? well, after the cabbie took a terrible route and then turned in the wrong direction, i decided to say something, and here's the conversation:

me: umm...you realize lincoln is the other way, right?

angry cabbie: i know where i'm going. i'm a cab driver. i know where i'm going.

me: ok, well, i'm just wondering why you would be driving AWAY from my destination.

angry cabbie: you want me to sit in that traffic? i'm avoiding traffic. i'm a cab driver. i know.

me, trying to avoid turning into asshole buhster: well, sir, you could have just said that instead of taking a really rude tone with me.

angry cabbie: you know what i was doing, but you ask anyway. i'm not taking a tone.

me, turning into asshole buhster: yes, yes you are taking a tone. and if i knew what you were doing, why the hell would i ask?

so we finally get to the place, and he only makes me pay $5 because he says, "ohhh, yeeeah, you were right. i thought you said clybourn."

sigh.

so now, i'm all tense and annoyed and hoping that i can calm down enough to enjoy the massage.

well, that of course won't be happening because my masseuse smells like a fucking homeless person.

that's right. B.O. to the high fucking heavens. and of course, i had sprung for the extra long 90 minute session.

back in the day, miss misc started a list of people who cannot have stank breath on the job. today, i'd like to start a list of people who cannot have a general stank on the job, and a masseuse is at the top of that list.

there are approximately 8 hours left in the day and more planned birfday events. if i manage to make it through without getting puked/pissed/or spat on by some miscellaneour, i'll consider it a moderate success.