Allow me some superficial whining for a moment... Not only is today tainted but my birthday will never be the same. I'll always know the next day is when my husband died.
Not superficial. At all. Grief is an immeasurable, unfathomable burden. The hell of it is, no matter how much we wish we could carry part or all of it for you, it is impossible. But we can be at your side with a gentle hand at those inevitable times when you stumble under the load.
I hope that one day you can see it as his will triumphing over the winding down of his body long enough to get to see one last birthday with you. But yeah, right now it sucks beyond the telling of it.
Maria, come 2013, if you aren't somewhere awesome, please let me have you here. We'll incorporate you into my my neighbor tri-some of bdays, which we're doing tomorrow. Hell, if you want to, show up at 3610 at 6:30. I realize that is probably impossible, but I'll be thinking of you.
Although now I'm wondering if annexing the Sudetenland would help me get a date.
And a mustache named after you. That would be cool, right? For a guy. I mean, I don't really want a mustache named after me.
I'm now imagining the Windsparrow Mustache, and it's pretty amazing. It has to join with the sideburns somehow, but discreetly.
Allow me some superficial whining for a moment... Not only is today tainted but my birthday will never be the same. I'll always know the next day is when my husband died.
I noticed that, Maria. I'm so sorry. I have death anniversaries tied to my birthday, too. I think this is supposed to be where I tell you it gets better. And maybe it does, but basically, every year I hold my breath until my birthday passes.
I was trying to write something, but basically, what Windsparrow said. I'm sorry about the awful timing, Maria. No part of this is fair.
Maria, come 2013, if you aren't somewhere awesome, please let me have you here. We'll incorporate you into my my neighbor tri-some of bdays, which we're doing tomorrow.
As a back-up plan, let me offer up Tom Scola's get-out-of-bad-anniversaries option of heading to various West Coast Buffista locales and letting the localistas love you up but good. Either coast will do, really; I just happen to be partial to the one I'm on (plus, you truly must come to San Francisco at some point; all the elderly Italian expats of North Beach will want to adopt you and pet your hair and feed you delicious things until you burst at the seams, in a deeply good way).
eta: Not to be flippant at all -- but sometimes just being away from the place where the grief happens helps, and don't ever forget that you have multiple continents of loving hearts.
Or perhaps you'd like to come to Atlanta and have a small dog distract you by nipping your ankles.
Or perhaps you'd like to come to Atlanta and have a small dog distract you by nipping your ankles.
He's very sweet once he accepts that you're not there to murder Ginger.
Whatever makes her happiest!
