Today is my birthday. I am 35. And this has been one of the crappiest birthdays I can remember. It isn't because of the Big Significant Number -- my age does not scare me or anything, and I know that I have earned every damn one of my wrinkles. But it is Monday, and it rained all day, and work sucks, and there is water in the basement, and I still have the pig-SARS-avian-flu-plague thing or something, and I kind of really wanted a party. Although I did get ice cream cake, and G took me out for lunch. That at least counts for something, although ... not much. But he tries, and I can be very difficult.
Yet again, I am going to start whining about how I need a vacation. It's hard to get over the Seasonal Affective Disorder when the season won't change and stay changed, when it won't warm up for long, when it won't stop being so damp and dank and miserable. I want to feel like this:
So I'm going to pretend that I do. And I'm going to take a mini "vacation" from blogging this week and let other people write my posts for me for a couple of days or so, beginning with my sister Jaime.
Promise you won't download the old photos and try to blackmail me with them later, 'kay?