Happy Birthday, You Huge Freaking Pain in the Ass

Behold, the blank space of the unwritten entry!

So Christmas is over. My birthday is over. It was a glorious run. But now, it is over.

I am at home all this week, however, so I am not hitting the "oh shit I'm back at work and this is my life forever and ever" wall yet.

Instead, I am freaking out, because:

1) Our heat is not working. It is freeeeeeezing in here. Max and Ceiba have called a truce and are both leeching off my body heat under the covers.

2) Ceiba fell off the bed this morning and cried and limped and still seems to be walking funny but it could just be that she is cold.

3) I have not chosen winners for the Focker Swagathon, nor have I finished the playlist for my Amalah: The Album mix CD that will be the bonus prize for the winners because honestly, the Focker stuff is a pile of complete garbage.

4) I am trying to write a book. I have taken this week off for this express purpose. But I've hit the "six solid pages of literary gold followed by narrative implosion" wall that I hit every time I try to write something that is not:

   a) A really disorganized entry about assorted things I am freaking out about.

   b) List-related.

   c) Completely stupid.

So instead? Let's just talk about my birthday. Which was yesterday. I've been stressing to Jason for WEEKS about how I want to do NOTHING on my birthday except to relax, chill, veg out and etc. No parties, no friends, no fuss.

Jason: Well, that's good, because I wasn't planning a party and you don't have any friends.

Ha! I kid. But I really hate the Big Birthday Fuss, because honestly? I had no say in my arrival into this world and would rather be celebrated for actual accomplishments, like writing the next great American novel, or at least 3,165 words of it.

So I slept late, got breakfast in bed, re-admired my new Tiffany's necklace that Jason got for my birthday but I insisted on opening on Christmas, and then horribly abused Jason's good nature by responding to his offer to go see "any movie [I] wanted" by dragging him to The Phantom of the Opera.

(Have I ever mentioned that I have a horrible weak spot for horrible musical theater? I do. I own soundtracks, people. Original cast recording soundtracks!)

Jason, At The Theater: You sure you don't want to see Lemony Snicket? The Life Aquatic? Spanglish? Anything?

Amy, Digging In Her Birthday Girl Heels: Phantom. Of. The. Opera. There is singing! And melodrama! And then more singing!

Jason is so wonderful. He even refrained from killing me outright when I said (with great delight, as we taking our seats), "This movie is going to be so, so bad. I cannot wait."

And it was...well, it was not great. It was also three hours long, so it gave me tons of stuff to nitpick and overanalyze the rest of the day and show off my pretentious geekitude when it comes to Broadway musicals. And Jason LISTENED TO IT. All night! And he even NODDED. Like he CARED.

He also took me to dinner at Ceiba, the restaurant frpm whence our dog's name came from, and I got to wear all new clothes and carry my new sparkly black satin Coach bag and our menus said Happy Birthday Amy with like, three exclamation points and I got a very special birthday flan wish for dessert.

Amy, Peering Obnoxiously at the Next Table's Menus: Oh, it just says happy birthday on OUR menus. Not everybody's.

Jason: *sticks fork in eye*

Next year? I want a pony. Preferably one who can sing Broadway showtunes.