that warm fuzzy feeling...

This Saturday is my illustrious and slightly painful 39th birthday. I will be home and my husband will be HERE. Now, being the reasonable woman that I am, I only chopped off three of his fingers. Any other woman would have taken the whole arm. I even took the three fingers from both hands so he'd have enough left on each to properly grip his ski poles. After all, I am a truly caring woman.

Well, actually, it's a free trip for him, which is the only kind of trip we can take right now because we are somewhat destitute. Hold on, I should correct myself. It's not "we," it's "he." Hubby works for a small company and the boss is generous with perks, like trips to Vail and the beach--guy-bonding trips. I work for a really big company where you are identified by a nine-digit number lost at least quarterly in the database. I get a generic $20 gift certificate at Christmas. That's right. He gets Vail. I might wrangle a pair of closeout shoes before tax. I'm not snubbing the the $20. I'm just saying it's just my luck.

So while I am doing laundry (I pray to the laundry gods for strength, for I have to battle the mountain of soiled despair), cleaning the four giant-sized cat litter boxes, wiping up hairballs, puke, and doggy butt Rorschach stampings, he will be on the slopes, or at the bar, or at the hotel's adjoining sledding slope or ice rink. I would think him an idiot if he didn't go. But on my birthday...? He knows the rest of his fingers are in grave, grave danger. Ha. Ha. Ha?