It’s my birthday today.
Let me try that again.
It’s my birthday today!!! (Cue release of helium balloons and singing waiters)
Don’t even ask how old I am, because apparently I don’t know.
Turns out, according to my know-it-all husband, I am a year older than I thought I was. He was all smirky-faced when he told me, especially during the part right after I finished counting years on my fingers and looking up with a Whaaa?? expression, the part where he casually reminded me he is fourteen months younger than me. Which might make me some kind of cougar, I’m not sure. An Alzheimer’s cougar.
I don’t know what I’m doing to celebrate. Probably checking the batteries in my Life Alert. Eating Almond Roca while wearing a fuchsia polyester pantsuit with suntan knee-high hose. Ordering a commemorative Bob Hope plate off the Home Shopping Network.
The usual birthday hoopla.
Also a satyr wearing eye-liner and horns glued to his head at the Halloween Store tried to pick me up on Wednesday, so I’ve definitely still got it, right?
Birthdays are good because people give you stuff. Like, my dentist sent a postcard saying “Happy Birthday! It’s time to schedule a cleaning!” because he knows I am extra good at plaque, and not so good at flossing. Also I am probably getting the flu from my daughter soon, since she’s been sick with it all week, and there goes my swinging party lifestyle (Almond Roca, anyone?).
I got a title, too. I am now officially “Co-Dance-Captain”. Of the Christmas Carol Fezziwig dancers. Even better is that I can’t dance, despite my couch-bound passion for So You Think You Can Dance, but it’s okay, because it’s just a bunch of couples doing a lurching, thundering polka-thing around the stage in hoop skirts and Victorian suits. It’s not interpretive dance. I got the job because my partner can dance and he also shouts things like “Allemande left!” and “Do-se-do!” while throwing me around the floor, and I haven’t fallen down yet. I’m practically a professional dancer, I think you could say.
I’m not sure about my duties, but I’m definitely making myself a “Co-Captain” name tag, or a trucker hat so people will recognize my importance.
The coolest thing I’ve gotten so far came from Lana, who sent me a T-shirt in the mail after I won her contest. It’s got a picture of a pickle’s ass:
I’m wearing it to work today. With my pantsuit.