5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1…the Countdown has begun. Yes, this is the last week of my 26th year, which I’m honestly shocked by. It feels like just yesterday when I graced Turner Field and the Atlanta Braves with my coconut bra & grass skirted presence, and now? It’s time to do it all over again.

At dinner last night, I said I was going to usher in the big 2-7 with an air of grace and decorum, which, besides proving to you that I was indulging in too much wine, should show you that really, I’m growing up. Instead of the all-out raging kegger packed with wall-to-wall people (only a slight exaggeration, if you can believe it) that I’ve had in the past, I’m having a smallish, somewhat sophisticated cocktail party, complete with a bartender (if I can find one for cheap, and by cheap I mean nearly free) and froo-froo beverages that just scream classiness. I’ll be sashaying with my nearest and dearest in a little Diane von Furstenburg number, mingling and delicately sipping my wine. No partial nudity planned whatsoever (well, at least not in public…hee.) See? I’m growing up.

As such, I’ve decided NOT to do my usual birthday wish list as in years past. That’s so childish to ask for jewelry or baubles that would just strike my fancy; no need to drop hints about the things I’d love to arrive on my doorstep (or work-step, as the big day falls on a Tuesday, you know) or give suggestions to any and all who may be in a quandary over how to treat me this year. Nope, much too mature and refined for that. Half of the fun of a birthday, after all, are the surprises! (And a card…I really, really want a card.)

Ok, so maybe just a FEW hints wouldn’t hurt…