Tim Pratt
SF and Fantasy Writer

It Was the Best of Birthdays, It Was the Worst of Birthdays

My Birthday Weekend Spectacular was more crappy than spectacular, really, but it had high points. Friday night our friend Amelia kindly babysat for us, enabling my wife and I to hit the town. For her birthdays, we tend to do fancy restaurants; for mine, we went to a brewpub and drank a pitcher of stout and I ate a burger as big as all outdoors and a plate of chili fries. We strolled around downtown Berkeley a bit, got some gelato, and then went to see Black Swan, which was pretty good. (Heather loved it; I thought it was a good horror movie except for all that dancin’. I’m a Philistine.)

Then we came home and collapsed unto unconsciousness. I was sick on Saturday. (Initially I just thought I’d finally gotten too old to eat a whole plate of chili cheese fries without consequences. It was soon apparent that I was way sicker than that would account for, though. Readers with long memories may recall I was sick last Sunday and Monday as well. That bout was less virulent, but still, getting sick twice? In a week? On my birthday week? You suck, universe.) Heather did courageous solo parenting while I was useless.

I managed to make an appearance at a holiday party on Sunday — I sorta had to, as they had a birthday cake for me! — doing my best to avoid human contact for the benefit of all. (Though many of my friends and acquaintances have been ill in recent days, without apparent common contagion vector, so I think it’s just going around). Mostly I just lolled around home, though, and attempted to rehydrate, which is an ongoing process. My wife got me some nice gifts: new pants, and an awesome new jacket, two things I desperately needed. And, being a wonderful wife, Heather said we can reschedule my birthday for next weekend! So I might get my beloved celebratory cherry cheesecake after all.

At this point, I’d settle for feeling human again, though.

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