Wednesday was my birthday. I'm 2-5 now. I told my mother her baby was a quarter of a century old. She told me to stop rubbing it in. hehehe. She's so funny. THE Husband of the Year sent me flowers at work. Tulips, and they are Beau-Ti-Ful. Everyone is still jealous. I'm still having a hard time believing that my husband's romantic talent is picking out gorgeous bouquets. It makes me want to giggle. In a good way. He also picked out a lamp to go next to my knitting recliner. It' exactly what I would have picked out. Y'all he knows what I like better than I do. (He always picks the better meal in a restaruant.) I'm just gonna stop thinking and let Matt do all the work.
This weekend, which started 5 hours ago, I am going to my mother's the scrapbook. I have yet to clean up and pack. But in my defense, I just woke up. What? Your exciting friday night plans don't involve reheated spaghetti and taking a nap until 10? PoPo says that you don't know how to live until you've had reheated spaghetti.
So, I'm a little late in publishing my own birthday notice, but feel free to send money anyway (or possibly yarn).
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