Starting My Next Year With a Bang

Some birthdays are better than others. My sixteenth birthday was a lot of fun. Boo surprised me by hiding in the coat closet and when I went to get my jacket he grabbed me and delivered a kiss so steamy if my father had noticed, Boo would have been seriously injured.

My 27 birthday sucked rotten eggs as I watched my child struggle to live through a blood infection that was intent on killing him. That sucked. No amount of birthday cake or bday wishes from the cute residents could turn that birthday around. My thirtieth birthday rocked. Best birthday to date. Until my son died 24 days later. Kinda killed the whole 'rocking my 30's' mojo I had going on.

So waking up to discover I was not only infected by the plague but looking and feeling like death warmed over on my 32nd birthday wasn't really as devastating as one would think. Particularly since the hubs was absent and the only celebrating I had in mind was to curl up on the couch and watch whatever channel was the least fuzzy out of the three I have to pick from.

But thank you for all your kind words and birthday wishes. They warmed the dark and fuzzy recesses of my heart and catapulted me above the self-pity that threatened to swallow me whenever I looked in the mirror and saw a monster staring back.

Oh la la. Look at me. I'm sooo sexy.


I'm feeling marginally better now. The room has stopped spinning long enough for me to drag ole Racy Red out and get a little dirty.

As my gift of thanks to you, I'm sending you over to view Racy Red's latest sexy exploits.

After all, I may be sick, but I'm not dead.