Hi. I'm Sarah. And I'm an Aquarius and I really, really wanna be loved by you.

Well today's the day, the day I make all your dreams come true. But never mind that.

Today is also the day I have to start writing my two digit age with the number 3. To give you a better idea of the state of me and my environs, this week I have:

-consumed a bag of popcorn (snack size okay) and a can of Hansen's Vanilla Cola every night around midnight.

-stayed in my pajamas. Put jeans on once while in a motivated mood and decided it wasn't worth the loss of comfort. Put pajamas back on.

-bathed twice.

-stayed in my house. Only ventured out to throw a bag of dirty diapers outside the door.

-went braless, mostly because of the above mentioned hermit-ness (did you know it feels strange and irritating to have bosom support after nearly a week of being shackle free?)

- lost a lot of sleep because of a strange humming noise in my bedroom. The Husband says he can't hear it. I think he's working on some elaborate April Fool's joke to get back at me for last year.

-requested cheesecake.

-watched too much stuff on Hulu.

-decided most of T.V. is bad acting . . . but I watch it anyway to make me feel better about the split between Keira Knightley and Rupert Friend, therefore dashing all hopes she could one day be known as Mrs. Friend.

-requested cheesecake.

-rededicated myself to the eating of chocolate, after a brief moment of insanity.

-made peace with the universe. Bribery was involved. Universe likes flattery too.

-was reminded that with age comes wisdom. And I need that because usually I'm pretty dense. So bring it on! (the wisdom I mean)

-decided to embrace myself. Really. I gave myself a hug. It was dumb.

-heard Bosco say, "I love you Mommy" about thirty times. I don't think that number is a coincidence.

. . . and I'm still waiting on that cheesecake.

Have a lovely weekend my dear poopsies. I plan on starting this decade of mine off all supastar like, and also getting more smarter in the process.

Did you know getting red lipstick off your forehead takes some effort?

Oh January. Such a cold, blustery, somber month you are, at least in some parts of the world. And really the only part of the world that matters to my easily chilled fingers and toes is the one I'm living in . . . so, cold and blustery it is.

However, despite the chill that accompanies dear janvier, and the slightly depressing after effects of the holidays being done and over, January has always been my favorite month. Birthday months have a way of garnering that honor. So in years past, I became ever so talented at ignoring the drab winter weather, at least until February 1st.

What ice? I see no ice. Emptiness? I see no barren space where the Christmas tree used to be. Sulking? I see no need to wish for summer.

I see only birthday candles, presents, people showering me with attention and smiles. I see only a day with my name written ALL over it.

But this year is different. This year I am well aware of the three inches of snow that have turned into crusted over ice. It glares at me when I look outside, and threatens me when I open the front door.

The blast of wintery wind hits my face and I curse this forsaken month. I pack up the last Christmas ornament and I'm moody the rest of the day. January has lost it's magic.

And it's not because I'm hormonal. How dare you! No, I'm near positive it's because I'm old. This month I officially become an old fart, and I join all you other old farts who have left your twenties behind.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm having such a hard time with it. This sort of thing (aging) happens to people everyday. Some people are even leaving their thirties, forties, fifties, gasp, sixties . . . seventies! behind. And in some cases eighties, nineties, and one hundreds are being reached. 'Tis true. I read about it on the internets and heard it through the grapevine.

Nevertheless, my measly thirty has got me down in the rotten dumps. Maybe because when I was a kid I remembered when my mom turned thirty, and I thought she was the oldest thing in the world next to my grandma, and the invention of trains, and dirt. Sorry Mother Loops. That was an exaggeration, for comical purposes.

But now please tell me why even email spammers know it's my birthday, and they act all happy for me, and they want to give me free unnecessary things and exclamation points!!! If this was my 23rd year I might be a little flattered. I generally love offers for discounted cable and Viagra. But this year I'm just not as receptive, or gracious.

And why are people staring like they know the number that is now attached to me for the next year? Do I have a dopey deer-in-headlights look on my face and a big 3-0 written on my forehead with bright red lipstick, that looks slightly misshapen due to the wrinkles?

I don't really want to be one of those people who feels the need to lie about her age. It's just a dang number. Right? Usually accompanied with bodily evidence.

So I've got two weeks to get an attitude adjustment, or this will be a dreary birthday indeed. Plus Oprah might just hunt me down and tell me thirty is the new ten. And let's be honest, Oprah is a little scary. So are ten-year olds.