Birthday Boot Camp

Can't we just gloss over the fact that it's my goddam birthday? 

No?

Fine. 

It's my birthday.  Well, it will be my birthday on Tuesday.  My effing (f*ck) twenty (F*CK!) seventh birthday. 

Damn it. 

I guess I am reluctantly embracing it. 

Ok, embracing is a strong word.  Tolerating is more accurate. 

And as part of my toleration strategy, I have planned to "celebrate" (f*ck) for five whole days.  I took Monday and Tuesday off work, and I intend to use them to my advantage. 

Friday - Day One:

Cheesy teen movie with the girls.  I Am Number Four.  This is the type of movie that makes you cover your eyes because the cheese burns your corneas.  LOVED it.  

Saturday - Day Two:

Wii, and wine, and duelling pianos.  From which I've learned three important things: a) I am the QUEEN of sword fighting; b) wine is delicious; and, c) rockin piano dudes at a kickass New Orleans-inspired bar make for the funnest birthday activity known to humanity.

Day Three:  

Sore arms, and a minor hangover, and sitting.  From which I've learned three crucial lessons:  a) being the Queen sword fighter comes at a price; b) wine is effective; and, c) sitting on the couch watching Nanny McPhee is good, but it still doesn't top sitting on the couch and repeatedly enjoying the hilarity of the Birthday Boot Camp talking birthday card.   

Haaappy Biiirthday! 

Say it like you mean it!

Happy Birthday!

Louder!

HAAAAPPPPPY BIIIIIIIRTHDAY!  SIR!

You do not have to shout!  I am not deaf!  I want piece of cake and a fork!

Would you like ice cream Sir?!

Did I ASK for ice cream?!

No SIR!

Get in there and get me some cake!

Ok Sir!

Hup-to.  Huo-to.  Hup-to. 

Happy!

Birthday!

Happy!

Birthday!

Clap in unison!

*clap clap clap clap clap*

Clearly, this is the highlight so far.  No contest.

_

We're having gas problems

When I got home tonight there was an envelope - a bank statement - stuck between the front door and the door frame. 

'Huh' I thought.  'Must have been delivered to the neighbour's house by mistake.'

So I stumbled in the door with purse and bags, scarf and hat, and bank statement in hand, and promptly dropped it all in the hallway. 

And then I heard the incessant beeping. 

The answering machine, indicating that there is a new message. 

'Must be Hubby' I thought.  'Or Mom.  No one else calls me.  I'm a loser.'

I pulled off my boots and huffed and puffed into the kitchen and listened to the message. 

Yep.  Hubby. 

"Hello there.  Just in case you don't get my note in the door, which I'm sure you will, the gas guy is coming between 8pm and 12 midnight to restore our services because it's f*ing cold.  Don't freeze, k?  I love you.  I brought you up a heater.  K?  Patch will keep you warm.  Bye."

'Ah, how cute.  And, yeah, it is effing cold.  What the hell?'

So I went into the dining room and looked at the thermostat. 

'Thirteen degrees?  Thirteen?  Effing gas idiots.'

You see, we've been having gas problems.  Not digestive.  Natural.  Our gas metre has been leaking for months.  We always smell it outside.  And we always call the gas company, and they always come "fix" it. 

And now I don't have heat. 

Coincidence? 

Hardly. 

Then it occurred to me. 

'A note... what note?  ...Oh, the envelope.'

Sure enough, a note similar in type and tone to Hubby's phone message was written on the back of the TD Canada Trust bank envelope.  "Don't freeze!"

And all I can think is:  'Why would he write a note on the back of a bank envelope?  With the bank statement still inside?  And then stick it in the front door for the entire world (including, potentially, the gas guy) to find?  That sounds like a GREAT idea.  Isn't he worried about identity theft?'

Evidently he is not. 

_