Happy Birthday To Me

Photo by Sergei Solovev

I don’t want a lot of things in life. Besides one day being married to my best friend with three beautiful blue-eyed children and two brown boarder-collies named Merry + Pippin and a two-storey Porter Davis home with the Hamptons facade. Also I’d like to have my own breakfast show on Channel 10.

But one thing I had wanted for a long time was a completely ridiculous and over the top celebration all about me. Cue my 21st birthday.

I’d been building hype for my big day – or as I like to call it the “month of Lizzie” – for the past 11 months. That’s not easy. You have to constantly remind people it’s almost your birthday. And that you’re having a party. It’s like creating a business. Not that I’ve ever done that. But I’d imagine it’s pretty much the same thing.

Luckily for me, the Month of Lizzie (#monthoflizzie) did not disappoint and my life actually become the melodramatic fairytale I always blog about.

Here’s the highlight reel.

1. A young boy mistook me for a guinea pig

When I was little I loved animals. That makes it sound like I don’t love them anymore, which is a lie. But I was really into animals. Especially penguins. I had 76 penguin toys and figurines around my childhood bedroom. It was not a big room. Anyway I also loved farm animals. So my family surprised me on my birthday and took me to my favourite children’s farm. Nostalgia central. In the afternoon I sat around on the farm rug with 67 other small children, waiting to cuddle a guinea pig.  The young boy next to me was quite impatient and clearly confused what a guinea pig was. He seemed more amused at poking the grass he was meant to feed the guinea pigs, through the holes in my jeans (I wear ripped jeans because I’m edgy). He then thought it’d be better to just try and push the grass into my mouth whilst exclaiming “guinea eat, guinea eat!” His poor mum. She was so embarrassed all she could do was take 3000 photos of me with grass in-between my teeth. Cheers guys.


2. I managed to eat at a cafe without viewing the menu online beforehand

Those of you who’ve eaten at a cafe with me will understand the level of food anxiety I have. Being vegetarian (and not to mention potentially one of the world’s fussiest eaters) I always panic about what I’ll eat at a cafe. I tell a lot of people this. It’s my sneaky way of being able to always pick the cafe. So sue me. My family surprised me (again, and I hate surprises normally) and took me to some fantastic cafe that was much too cool for me but I loved pretending I was a real blogger having brunch there. Now normally, I would download a menu the night before, look over it once or twice. Then the next morning I’d look at it again and narrow down my options. On the way to the cafe I’d have another look just to make sure. I’d then get to the cafe and panic and order scrambled eggs. This time, I managed without looking at a menu once before arrival. What did I order? Scrambled flipping eggs.


3. I became the ultimate white girl 

I was lucky to be spoiled with many presents on my birthday (mainly because I’d been dropping a lot of very specific hints for the past 11 months). But like the true white girl I am, I received all the essentials. Silver Birkenstocks, for the not-so-hidden disciple in me. A Gorman raincoat – for the times it’s raining a little but not raining too much, like sort of just spitting but I still want to look good. And of course, because I’m clearly the real-life equivalent Blair Waldorf, minus the money, general sass and semi-manipulative on/off relationship with a guys who once sold me for a hotel – a little blue box. It had a Tiffany  and Co. necklace inside it by the way, it wasn’t just the box. And no it was not an engagement ring (thank goodness , as I’ll need a wedding in a few ten years to help my ego after this post birthday depression).


4. I realised there is such thing as too many espresso martinis

Well that one speaks for itself. Don’t do it kids. Not at your party. Not anytime. I’m kidding by the way there’s obviously no such thing as too many.

Also on another related note my minister got my entire church to sing me happy birthday. As if I needed more attention.

Although none of these can compare the satisfaction of convincing people that my birthday was actually important enough to be stretched out to an entire month.

I’m not even sorry for the narcissist I’ve become.

Now, as I lay in my bed, eating an entire MnM crispy chocolate block (I am not being sponsored by these guys I swear, I’m just really excited about these new blocks), I realise I am sinking into what can only be described as a post-month of Lizzie slump.

So until I think of another reason to justify my self promotion,


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