Fuck. The fam has cottoned onto the fact that this weekend is the weekend before my birthday, and now they want to do something.
I hate my birthday. My birthday has never been good. My birthday has been downright rotten since 2006, when it featured a prime episode in Dad's fatal cancer, and I'd rather not be reminded of that, thank you.
Saturday I have to take Mom over the river to get her visa waiver renewed before we go to Chicago. I thought I would have the Sunday all to myself, but now it looks like that'll be crowded out too, and I'll have no time to myself to do, well, nothing. Lie on the couch and read.
I have no doubt that it'll be up to me to drive up to Sis' as well. It's always up to me to drive.
What do I want for my birthday? To be left the fuck alone. That's what I want.
The day itself, I have Tai Chi, so at least I get out of that. The day after, a bored meeting. The Monday, I would have been excused having spent the day with Mom on Saturday. I've been thinking about this. None of the fam has. Which is entirely the point.