Yep. It’s that day. Two score and seven years ago today, my poor mother was just about done having me, and I got on with my own life. Here I am still, having my own life! Today I celebrated with Starbux in bed (a venti house blend with room for cream), then went over to dear friend Mary Lee’s house where she gave me Irish breakfast tea and artisanal Irish soda bread, and we caught up after a couple of months of missing our usual Thursday tea.
Mr. Husband kindly got my car’s oil changed and picked up The Boy from his other house while I had tea with the fabu ML and, when we got home to this house (Casa Blanca), an old friend from the Family of Women was waiting in front of my house and we ended up having a nice visit just like that. Surprise!
And then: nothing.
I did a whole lot of nothing, including not doing dishes or laundry or cooking or lifting up even one pinky finger. I did some knitting and read some glossy magazines and now am awaiting the arrival of the beloved Mr. Husband with a load of take-out sushi. Cake to follow (Boston cream cake, which is like Boston cream pie but twice or three times as tall)!
I see presents over there, and a stack of cards from the mail, and let me just say that Facebook made me feel like royalty with all those birthday messages. I rock, if you believe these friends of mine. Just for today, I do.
Thanks, everyone, for the fun and friendly wishes and quotes from famous people, and you said such nice things — well, it makes a middle-aged lady reach for her embroidered hanky. From her sweater sleeve, of course. Where else would it be?
Happy day to you, too. Peace and love and all that.