Dear Gentle Reader,
I LOVE my birthday. Or I did.
Up til a few years ago I celebrated my birthday for a full month. I was giddy over it like a flea at a dog show. And as I’ve evolved into my 40’s higher numbers have not phased me a bit. What has phased me is incredible bad luck that has now been associated with my birthday month–causing me to want to shake it like a lousy rat.
There’s more to this caper called March then I bargained for—and just like cheap bourbon I am going to put it on ice. The month of March has been like a sewer and I’m going to lift the manhole cover. The month of March has been like a sick cockroach in a greasy diner and I’m calling Big Al. I don’t really know what that means but I like it.
During the Month of March years past:
-I woke up at 1:20 am on my birthday and proceeded to crawl inside toilet bowl expelling everything since 1977. Everything. I had to throw out my pants. -My husband was sent to Haiti with 36 hours notice. Both kids were under the age of 4 and had the stomach flu. My 5 year old son had the noro virus and was hospitalized. My 2 year old bounced from friend to friends house as husband was deployed. I watched Mary Poppins 27 times in a row. Two year old caught stomach virus. I then caught stomach virus. -I broke my toe. In Mexico. I used a patio chair as a walker. I crossed the border, walking, with patio chair. -My house was infested with carpenter ants. The exterminator came. Upon his departure a lake of chemicals lay in the middle of my kitchen floor (no for real) and dead ants dripped from every surface. -I lost my only set of car keys and my wallet while my husband was deployed. -My steering wheel was stolen.
I have to stop. I’m not even finished. I think you get it.
Gentle reader we are half way through the Month of March. Pray for me.
Next week I go to New York City. I am so sorry in advance to my traveling companions.