As part of this week's Black List, Black Table writer Jennie Dorris bemoans having a birthday near Christmas:

I have a birthday on December 21. Yeah, go ahead and do what all my friends do, which is wince and go, "Man, I bet everybody gets you the combo-gift." Then they promptly send a package with a Christmas-Birthday gift. Furthermore, a birthday on the 21st guarantees you a day with no friends around -- finals are over or people have taken off work to go home for the holidays. The 21st is also the solstice, meaning my birthday is the shortest day of the goddamned year. I don't even normally get an astrological sign -- I have to jump between two since I'm on the cusp. Finally, this year decided to top the whole damn thing off by landing the 21st on a Sunday. A Sunday, for god's sake. You can't even buy booze in Colorado on Sundays. A boozeless Sunday with leftover friends and combo-gifts -- bring it on, 24.

Well, Jennie, I'll see you your Dec. 21 and raise you another couple of days to Dec. 23. Try having a birthday that's two days before Christmas and then come talk to me. (And for you poor fools that have birthdays on the 24th or the 25th, well then I'll respectfully shut my mouth and bow down in your presence -- and to your lack of presents). Not only do I often get the ol' Christmas-birthday gift comment/combo, but I consider myself lucky when that happens. Most people forget my birthday all together. Friends, relatives, co-workers.

But, you know, whatever...the older I get the less it means to me and the people who mean the most to me usually come through when Dec. 23 rolls around. Cory, my mom, my good friends. In fact, my friend Sandra just surprised me with an early birthday present - this kick-ass Hard Candy Hot Box with Midnight Cowboy eyeshadow. Which rocks, because as you might remember, mine just met up with the big bathroom floor in the sky. Cory's mother and grandmother also both remembered my birthday early.

So yeah, I guess that's the kind of stuff that counts and I'm going to stop pouting now. (By the way, this isn't about gifts, it's just about people remembering). It's been going on like this for damn near 34 years, it's time to get over it. Besides if people keep forgetting my birthday I think that means I don't have to get any older.


Speaking of holidays and presents, the New Yorker has given us all a nice little gift with "Let it Snow" , a new David Sedaris story. (Via sam-i-am, who doesn't even celebrate Christmas so stop asking her about it already.)
Enjoy.