Shards

I have a feeling that the person who Googled "my husband is hard to live with" was not expecting the second link to be this.

Sorry, dude. Unless your husband is hard to live with because he's so damn funny or because he keeps putting the number 5 plastics in the recycle bin no matter how many times I tell him we can only recycle 1s and 2s, I can't help you.

You may want to get together with the person who searched for "marriage after 18 years," though, and trade notes.

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I'm turning older this weekend, so I'm going to New York. Alone, with no kids or hubbies. I'll be hooking up one day with a couple of college buds (including my maid of honor), but am otherwise footloose and fancy-free. I'm either going to buy a lot of shoes, drink a lot of mojitos, or sleep 23 hours a day. Y'all get one guess.

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Tomorrow is my last day of physical therapy, and I'm slightly panic-stricken. I've been very good at keeping my twice-weekly appointments, but I'm worried about keeping up with the program when left to my own devises. I've been battling deep fatigue (again, still) for the last few weeks, and when I get home, I pretty much just want to take off my bra and lie down until bedtime (you're welcome). We have all the bands and balls and mats and ankle weights, so there's really no reason for me not to continue the program at home -- I even have some old, trashy TV on DVD from Netflix to play in the background. If only I weren't so frocking tired.

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So, naturally, I'm taking on projects and planning our PKD fundraising juggernaut and thinking about having dinner parties. (What?) I've got some really nifty ideas about fundraising this year, and I'll post about them all soon. Soon-ish. Eventually. Just after I get a nap or six.