So what could I do? I hid in the closet for the next two hours fondling my meat thermometers. (One is digital and wireless. I should go buy a turkey. HIM isn't known for buying the best gifts. I got him 50 black balloons on his birthday. I sent them to work. HIM has a cubicle. I thought that was funny as hell. My MIL mentioned this to me when I said I was less than happy about turning 50. I said that it was funny when HIM was turning 50, not me. The moron cat would have freaked at having 50 black balloons in the house anyway.)
I remember when I turned 30 and I was upset. I don't remember 40, probably because I was 7 months pregnant and peeing every...five...minutes. Seriously, a note to women who haven't yet had a child, you will pee every five minutes and you won't sleep more than an hour at a time and that's before you have the baby. Just be prepared.
But 50. Sheesh. I depressed. Sofa king depressed. I will now endeavor to amuse myself.
This looks like hairy hairless cat. I like the message.
And then the heat pump broke. It wasn't 50. I'm sure. I hate 50. 50 sucks. I want to be 49 for another year.