I thought today, instead of posting Part 3 of my amazingly romantic getaway trip with Mr. Handsome, I would bring everyone up-to-date on my amazingly exciting and out-of-this-world weekend. I thought you might also need a break from the excitement of my getaway weekend, because it was just so amazingly exciting that I can hardly contain myself still, and it's been a week now since we've returned. Are you also now sick and tired of my usage of the word "amazingly"? I am. And, by the way, I did that on purpose.
Yes, guys, it's time I admit to all of you that I lead a very exciting life. Sucks to be you.
So, Saturday morning, I get up, pry my eyes open and stick in my contact lenses, without which I would be blind, and stumble down the stairs. I'm greeted by groups of white and reddish-pink balloons hanging off the ceiling. Hey! It's my birthday!! I actually said that in my head, because I had been trying really really hard NOT to remember my birthday, but there it was, staring me smack dab in the face. I had no choice but to remember.
And then I got extremely depressed and stuck my head in the can of coffee grounds on the kitchen counter because I remembered how old I now am...and it's old, guys. Like, so old that I can no longer even try to pretend that I'm just tired-looking, that those bags under my eyes are only due to lack of sleep, that my flabby ass is anything but that: a flabby ass.
So, I'm 47. Not old, I know. But certainly not 25. At least, at 25 I could get away with not wearing a bra. Now, I'd be arrested for public nuisance, or disorderly conduct.
I spent most of Saturday lolling about the house, doing nothing, because I was the Birthday Girl, and that's what Birthday Girls do. Loll. And then, Mr. Handsome had the gall to ask me to go to the grocery store to pick up a can of soup. Being the good wife that I obviously am, I did, but I didn't let him forget it.
We have a little ritual here in our home, whereby the birthday person gets to choose what to have for their Birthday Dinner. After many days of humming and hawing over one food group or another, I finally decided, give or take a cob of corn. Dinner ended up being scalloped potatoes, baked ham with pineapple, glazed carrots and a disgusting green bean casserole that I specifically asked for that was a total and utter FAIL and that I will never ever ever ask for again. Sorry everyone, for the rest of my sad little life.
Dessert was another story. We have a budding baker in our household. Em has always been a bit of a cooking afficionado, watching cooking shows with me from the time she was a wee baby. She wanted to make my birthday cake (or pie, in this case), and we gave her full reign. She ended up making a Triple Chocolate Pumpkin Pie with graham and chocolate crust, right from Martha Stewart! Yes! I KNOW!! Tres impressive, n'est-ce pas? Not that I even really like Martha, but that woman sure knows how to bake! And steal. But whatever. Who am I to judge?
Gifts included my Canon EOS that I've had since March (let's just say I'm really good at convincing Mr. Handsome), a UV filter for my main lens, chocolate, expensive and lush bath things, and two wonderful books from two of my favourite authors: The Year of the Flood, by Margaret Atwood, and Too Much Happiness, by Alice Munro. Oh, and a bottle of Bailey's. And no, it's not empty yet.
And then, Sunday morning came along, and I stepped in a lump of dog crap that had apparently fallen off Gryphon's tiny ass and landed right in the middle of the BROWN kitchen floor, unbeknownst to me. Yes, we are STILL having dog poop issues with our high-maintenance dog who now also needs his paws washed weekly with special shampoo AND THEN blow-dried. And yes, I would be the one to blindly find the fallen poop and step in it with my BARE FOOT.
Did I use enough caps in that paragraph? I think so.
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