I told everyone not to bother getting me anything for my birthday. The thought of another blouse or scarf or book nearly sent me into a fit - not that I don't like blouses or scarves or books, I do. But I have so much stuff that I'm feeling like a closet hoarder lately.
My sister gave me lunch and an afternoon at the Philadelphia Art Museum, and since her birthday is two days before mine, I got her the same thing.
My mother-in-law brought me red velvet cupcakes and a gift certificate to Prancing Peacock Yoga, the cupcake and the downward dog melding into a yin-yang balanced day. My eldest daughter gave me the first Harry Potter book which I'm reading to her before bed, a chapter a night and it's quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. My youngest daughter sang me happy birthday, throwing in 'cha cha chas' when I least expected it and making me snort.
It was a wonderful birthday until my husband made me cry. He gave me a three day pass to the Pennwriters Conference in Pittsburgh. He booked my hotel. He brooked no argument, though it means that I'm away for three days and that I'm spending money we don't exactly have.
He also got me a fridge magnet: