It's like Dave KNOWS I would have a bad day. Or else HE broke my car on purpose so I'd appreciate the wine and flowers more.

Today wasn't all a bust, as I got home to THIS. (There, in the photos. YUM.) Dinner was already made. Dessert-ish was on the counter. Potatoes on the stove. (Cookies ... of which I can have eight, because the rest are going to be used to make a peanut butter-cookie-pie thing.) And no I didn't eat eight. Just three. God.

And it's not even my birthday. It's my car-died-again day. You know, just Wednesday.

"Things" have been kind of weird with Dave and I; with him working so late, when he leaves after dinner, we say "see you tomorrow." Eating dinner -- one that's more than a cheese omelet and toast, my old standby for any of the three meals -- is like an hour of my day that doesn't, well ... you know. And then there's wine and chocolate on top of it? What is this, PARADISE?

No. Dishes still get dirty. The dog still has trouble distinguishing between chew toys and my favorite shoes. My car just broke again. My stupid, stupid car. Somewhere, my bank account is in the fetal position, crying itself to sleep with the rest of my wine cradled under its measly arm.