42

Hubby turns the magical age of 42 today.

I think this birthday is hitting him hardest of any of them. I think it's because he doesn't get to play with Pink Floyd today. I tried to book the band, but they regretfully declined, citing some problems with the pigs getting out and flying everywhere. Of course, it doesn't matter, really, since Hubby can't play the guitar.

Among the shared whacky sense of humor, there are many dissimilarities between Hubby and Douglas Adams: fame, fortune, height, close friendships with various Pythons, musical talent, being quoted all over the world or perhaps the galaxy. Hopefully, other dissimilarities will extend to not dieing at an all-too-young age.

This seems to bum him out. Because, you know, apparantly everyone else who turns 42 gets to share the stage with David Gilmour.

Ah well. I've learned to live with dissappointing those I love. No pony for the girls, no riff with Floyd for the Man in my life.

Happy Birthday, Hubby. Here, have a carrot.