Not that I'm complaining.

Well, friends, so far my (mumbles into sleeve)th year has been a bit crap, as the Brits would say. There's nothing like spending your birthday splayed out on the sofa because you've thrown your back out AGAIN and have been diagnosed with a bulging disk (which is just as painful as it sounds) and you can't even have a glass of wine because of the maaaasive doses of Ibuprofen (enough to cause ringing in your ears, a rare but not alarming occurrence, according to the literature) and the applesauce carrot cake you planned to bake got scrapped in favor of a marginal but overpriced chocolate number and the story that you'd just sold to a major magazine got cut, even though you'd worked your oh-so-achin'-butt off trying to make it work.

Oh, and the television broke.

But I did get a super-giant hug from my boy, along with a spiffy little naked dance. (Somebody didn't mind the marginal cake. Considering it was his first real bite of sugar, I'm not surprised.) And the magazine is looking at another one of my pitches. And I had Matt and Amanda around to help so it wasn't all sucky. But lemme tell ya, getting old's a bitch.