So, I'm flying solo this week. Eight long days before my darling hubby reappears on the scene. If everything runs smoothly, he should make it about 11:45 pm on Sunday, just in time to celebrate the last fifteen minutes of my birthday. Since he's arriving with some favorite friends, I suspect my special day will involve very little pampering and an awful lot of desperate house cleaning.
I know it could be worse. I know I should feel happy for Jason and the well-deserved recognition he is receiving in New York. I know I should be grateful that he's around most of the time and always supportive when he's here. But I don't want to cowboy up. I simply want to indulge in some self-pity.
Happy birthday? Bleh.