Just A Bit More Whininess, If You Please

It is my birthday eve!

I love my birthday eversomuch, but it has had a bit of a wet blanket thrown over it the last few weeks. (I tend to celebrate the day of my birth for a good month or so.)

The back pain toys with my emotions - yesterday I could have sworn I was almost completely better, and this morning....back to square one. Damn. I'm getting a bit sick of this. My plan to go camping down by Mt. Rainier and hang with the most wonderful Dave may not be possible.

The girls and I have been looking forward to this for months.

On one hand, I will be in pain anywhere - so why not be with someone I enjoy spending time with - and plus also? There is a flea market in Packwood (the town closest to Dave's cabin) that will provide hours of people watching fun. I have been invited to sit in the abandoned gas station that Dave bought his brother to live in (such a good, good story that I have to tell you sometime) and drink beer and socialize with some cream o' the crop flea marketeers.

However, will the drive kill me? Will I be able to stand after a night spent sleeping on the ground? Will it really matter if I drink enough wine?

I will decide, in true Shari-last-minute-god-forbid-you-ever-plan-any-damn-thing fashion, tomorrow.

Now. Here is the real birthday rant. Mickie, the girls' Nanny - she who cannot come up with subtle hints Mickie - got me a birthday present today. It was a nice white shirt (because I have this weird thing about white shirts) in the very flattering size of a 5X. A.Five.Extra.Large.

Una Cinco Muy Grande.

At first I was a bit horrified. Was this how she saw me? Understandably, I am a robust Norwegian woman. 6 feet tall. And....um....ample.

But good God, not THAT ample.

I admit with no embarrasement that if buying a non-number size I usually go for a XL or lately (sigh) a 2XL. Yep. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. I won't hide a goddamn thing from the world.

The thing that gets me is that, even though I have begged her to please not do it, she does quite a bit of my laundry during the week. I truly appreciate it and I'm not going to bitch about something so awesome.

But don't you think she would have peeked at a tag or two in the last year? Wouldn't it be relatively easy if you hadn't looked to just walk into my room and look in my closet?

I think she knew exactly what she was doing.

The failed hints of the lowfat yogurt and the Oprah makeover show pointers have obviously not worked.

Now she's bringing out the big guns. Well frankly, she can just fuck right the hell off.

Happy birthday to me.