Mmmmm, Crab

I got sucked into the "Deadliest Catch" marathon last Monday. It's a documentary about the Alaskan crab hunters and their many different escapades. Since then, I have been craving crab like a mo-fo. Crab legs, crab cakes, crab claws - I want it all. My husband, that lovable hunk, is taking me to Red Lobster this evening just to cool my cravings. We rode 10 miles this morning, I hope I can stay awake long enough to enjoy the feast.

Now for some selfish whining...

My 33rd birthday is coming up this year. I'm a Libra, I like things to be balanced. 3 is a good number all around. Being 33 is something I actually am looking forward to. So much, in fact, that I'd love to throw a party. However, the thought of throwing a birthday party for myself fills me with a sense of dread and depresses me to the point of suicide.

I'll explain. I don't think I've had a birthday party since I was five. My mom got mad at me, screamed and yelled, and sent everyone home early. Yep, I think that was the last one. Growing up, I never really had any friends. I watched my sister have a huge bash year after year, but me, nothing. Once I finally left home I thought, great, now I can throw any party I want. And I did. But no one ever showed up. Oh, excuse me, at one party everyone showed up (everyone being my then boyfriend's loser friends) took the beer, the food, and then left. For years the thought of having people over both excited and terrified me. Rejection is a hard thing to take over and over again.

Parties are supposed to be part of a normal life, right? Dinner parties, garden parties, bar-b-ques, graduations, birthdays, weddings, it seems we as humans are always partying. It shouldn't be that hard. But for some reason I am cursed. Every party I touch turns to crap. Maybe it's because I don't have any girlfriends. I have Alissa, and that's all I need. I don't do the fru-fru, giggly, let's all talk about our diets thing. I'm not your typical girl. The last time I painted my nails was when I got married, and I haven't had my hair professionally cut in years. I want to argue about politics and religion, not compare purses.

Anyway, I met my husband and threw a series of successful parties. His graduation, his birthday, plus a few baby showers for my sister and Alissa. I thought, great, curse ended. I've changed. Let's throw some parties. Boy, I set myself up royally. I threw a huge slumber party for 8 friends last Christmas. 2 showed up. 1 didn't even stay the whole night. All that food and drink, wasted. All those decorations I fretted over, wasted. All those plans - poof. Two of the invited guests were my own damn sister-in-laws. Bitches.

So I vowed right then and there to never throw another party for myself, ever. Then one of my favorite professors got pregnant and I threw her a baby shower. Sixteen invited. Six showed up. Skunked again. Now I've vowed to never throw another party, PERIOD.

So there's my quagmire. I want to celebrate my 33rd, but I'm incapable of doing so. I can't deal with the pain. Acid builds up in my stomach just thinking about it. All those fantasies of fun and friends and happy times - not for me. My birthday is on a Friday night. If I can have my husband on one side and Alissa on the other, drink in hand, possibly a burger in the other, sitting in front of a big bon-fire, I'll be happy.

Okay, self-pity party is over. Tune in next time for more straight-out bitching.