My birthday is tomorrow. I didn’t have anything special planned — except for what promised to be an exceptional dinner in Pittsburgh — but I went ahead and scheduled a day off anyway.
And then I got sick.
So instead of doing something fun for my birthday, I’m going to be lying on the fucking couch and watching The Price is Right.
I’ve been pretty irritated about this today, on top of feeling just generally shitty. Until I got home.
The Wife had a city council meeting to cover tonight, but she left me this display on the coffee table. In case you can’t read the notes, this is my “Sick on my Birthday” prize package. From left to right:
- Box of chocolate-caramel Pop-Tarts.
- Bottle of port.
- Three cans of chicken noodle soup. Double noodle, no less.
- A bottle of Knob Creek bourbon. Yum.
- The latest Rolling Stone: My “Sick on my Birthday” entertainment.
She’s still at her meeting, and I’m cooking one of the cans of soup as we speak. In a few minutes, I’l be sitting on the couch, eating my soup, leafing through the magazine and keeping an eye on the baseball game.
To The Wife: You’re the best.