Happy Fucking Birthday to Me.

I wrote this back in November and didn't publish it. I'm publishing it now, because i wanted to remember it.

I really work hard for birthdays. I make cakes, I buy presents, I wrap presents. I coordinate taking the birthday person out. I like them to know that they are appreciated. I have six children and you know, I make an effort.

Saturday is MY birthday. For the last several years I have been forgotten. Not even a card. What I get from my husband is, "Geeze, I should have gotten you a card or something, I really suck."

Yes, you do.

Now, he is sucking in advance. He has this aunt. She's 87 years old and she just dotes on him. Every year I remember her birthday,  I get her something for him to give her. He gets thanked. I get told off about how I raise our kids.

She always forgets my birthday. I told him that I wanted my birthday celebrated on Thanksgiving, when we go to the senior center to have dinner with her. Did he order a cake? Nah. He told me yesterday that Saturday would be a better day to do it. We have cake for everyone else when we go there on a birthday.

She gave him $500 for his birthday. All I want is actual recognition of my FIFTIETH birthday. By him AND her. I don't have parents. All I have are kids and him.

So, now, because we are going to his aunt's for Thanksgiving and because he works on Friday, I am making a thanksgiving dinner for our family on my birthday.

He did call me to tell me that he ordered a cake.

Oh -- and some of you that are on the same VSG track as me will catch the irony -- I can't even fucking eat it.

Not the cake and not the thanksgiving dinner.

So, what did I want? I want presents. Actual presents that are things that I would actually want. I don't want to have to think up my own presents. I want things that are not just handed to me in a walmart bag. I want wrapped presents.

I want to go out to dinner. Maybe I can't consume 1000 calories, but I could still be taken out to dinner, make decent choices and have ME celebrated for once.

You know what, I feel like dog shit right now. Something that someone would scrape off of their shoe.

UPDATE: I decided that rather than to sit around and passively/aggressively stew about this, I talked to my husband and told him everything. Surprisingly, he took it well and I feel better now.

UPDATE for the UPDATE: My birthday was so nice! The best ever.