As far as birthdays go, this one wasn't exactly a bomb. It wasn't great either, but it was just sufficient enough that I feel guilty about being so t-ed off about it.
Phone calls: 0
Cards: 2, both generic type cards bought by my husband at the grocery store that day when he was there for something else
Dinner: Kentucky Fried Chicken. Did I mention I don't really like KFC? The extra crispy breasts are decent if I have no other choices, but my dh always buys original and all dark meat. I don't trust the gravy, so I ate a biscuit with "buttery spread" and a little mac and cheese. I always wonder what that "buttery spread" actually is, since I'm sure they would call it margarine or butter if they legally could. Maybe it's made of steroids, because I gained four pounds. No kidding. Even if the chicken had been super delicious, I have given up meat for a few months for a big long novena I'm involved in.
So, here's a rundown of my day. We awoke early, went to church with the kids, then came home and changed. DH had to run to the store. He took two of the kids and was gone fffooorrreevvveeerrr. So there was hope, I thought, because he could have fit an extra errand in there. I mean, he went to the store around the corner, was gone an hour and a half, and came home with bread.
I took Grace to the farmer's market where I witnessed a woman with one baby--just one--being assisted with said baby by no less than four family members. I vaguely know her, and I bet she gets a lot of help. She's the type who expects to be catered to. And I hate her for it (not for expecting the help, but for actually getting the help; that's unforgiveable). My family is in another state, and my husband wouldn't even go with me. He thinks he is doing me a favor by keeping the baby, who was sleeping.
He made a big deal that I shouldn't worry about making dinner. In our house, I am the only one who makes dinner EVER, the only one who cleans EVER, the only one who does laundry EVER. Even on my birthday. So I thought he had something up his sleeve. I was thinking maybe he would take me out to this new-ish Indian restaurant I've been wanting to visit.
Grace needed a swimsuit, and we're particular about them because
I don't want my baby girl looking like a hoochie, like everyone's daughters seem to nowadays we have modesty issues. So I took her to Costco, where all the swimsuits were either too small or bikinis, then to two cheaper stores, and finally to Macy's. There, we found the ugliest darn swimsuit I have ever seen, but it's a modest-enough one piece that my daughter will wear because it has Hannah Montana across the front in metallic gold. And it was on clearance.
When I arrived home, my older stepson was there visiting, the one we usually pay for babysitting. This supported my theory that I was going out. Six o-clock rolled around and I asked my husband if I should make something for dinner. He said no, that he was picking something up. He left.
I was a little disappointed not to be getting away from the kids for the first time since last September (!!!yes, it has been THAT LONG!!). But whatever. There are a lot of good restaurants out there. Okay, let me rephrase that: there are a lot of edible restaurants. This is, after all, still Yakima.
So, he came home with the KFC, and we ate and then I opened my cards, and that was it. Happy Birthday. He went to bed early because he was too tired to watch TV with me after... whatever he did yesterday.
I'm not really upset about the birthday itself. In my family, birthdays just aren't a big deal. My husband, on the other hand, makes a huge issue of his birthdays. He was all crabby this year because he knew what he was getting (he had to know, because it was a ski pass). He's gotten mad at me for making cards--he has this thing for Hallmark, like if you really really love someone, you will only buy them a namebrand card.
Neither of my cards was Hallmark, of course.
I can't help but feel that this is not just a birthday, but a symptom of something larger. I feel like I am disappearing, like I have become a utilitarian object whose greatest attribute is that I perform well and don't give anyone problems. It makes me wish I was a bitchy, demanding type who wouldn't go to the farmer's market without an entourage, who would get mad at my husband for buying the wrong handbag or a sweater not in my size. At least someone who didn't sit down and pick at their KFC and tell their husband thank you. But I'm not that woman. And maybe I should buy my own present, but I tried that last year and it didn't cheer me up any.
So that's my birthday, folks. Hardly worth an MTV reality show; barely worth a Cymbalta commercial.