All I want for my birthday ...

... is a damn pizza.

It's been a rather dull, bordering-on-the-depressing birthday day. OB appointment with a glucose test. Planned to go home and do some yoga before picking up Kiddle at school. But his teacher called while I was waiting to have my blood drawn and basically said he was disgustingly snotty, please come get him. Scratch the yoga.

Mr. P had to drive to Connecticut today, but thought he'd be home by 6:00. I called to check on his progress at 5:40 and learned he was up by Woodbury Commons -- a solid hour from here, longer during the evening rush. And he still has to go by the office. Scratch dinner and him putting the kid to bed.

I perked up a bit when I decided to order myself a stuffed-crust pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut. Something I love, but rarely get because Mr. P has the typical New Yorker's disdain for chain pizza places. But then I found out they can't deliver right now. Scratch the pizza.

So I'll have to settle for a few spoonfuls of chocolate frosting right out of the jar. Yum.

***

Before you think this is the saddest birthday ever, there is some celebrating in the works. Dinner in the city tomorrow. Somewhere, with some people is all I know. I do know it's not somewhere horribly fancy because I'd hate to have to think beyond my mom clothes when I get dressed to go. (And confirmed by a friend (thank you Belinda!), because I can't totally trust Mr. P's assessment of appropriate attire.) And on Sunday, Mr. P is taking me to "The Importance of Being Earnest" at a local theater (that I haven't been to since before I moved to New York). AND he arranged all the necessary babysitting for Kiddle.

So it will be a great birthday weekend. BirthDAY, however, a bit blah.