Dont Mince Words

Yesterday was my birthday. No big deal and usually a nonevent for me, but when other people need an excuse to celebrate, I’m game. I mean, if there’s chocolate or beer involved, how horrible could it be.

GC took me to dinner at a swank place last night. As he held my hand and looked into my eyes he asked, “how old are you anyway?” I guess in our early courting rituals, we never got around to that detail.

“I’m 43. You too can look like me if you start your eye cream habit early,” I revealed.

“Oh, so you are only a year and a half older than me. We don’t look our age,” he said.

When it came time to order dessert, I knew I had matured. I got the baked apples instead of the chocolate gateau.

Another year wiser.

My brother and I had bad allergies as kids. As a result, we easily took naps. No complaints. In my adult life, I’ve continued my love of sleep, but now it borders on “you know you are getting old when….”

When GC asked me if I had plans for New Years, I laughed. I mean, why? After you’ve done Times Square, is there any point in getting on the road for a party in LA? I don’t think so. Of course, it’s rare for me to be up that late any way, unless I take a disco nap.

Imagine my excitement when I found a brand new way to enjoy New Years. It’s called East Coast Feed. At 9 p.m. GC, his 7 year-old son, and I blew horns, shot off confetti, and threw colored streamers. Tex and I walked home and I was in bed by 10:30 p.m.

A perfect New Year’s Eve.

The last time I was in Toys ‘R Us may have been a decade or two or three ago. I just remember wanting to carve my ovaries out with a dull spoon. What got me in this time? Well, coffee and the prospect of sex, of course.

Armed with a pumpkin latte, I went with GC to do Santa shopping. I discovered there was indeed a recession. I think I saw a dozen people in there on a Sunday which gave me more assumed latitude to “press here” and “pull here.” After pressing one too many Elmo hands, GC said, “you know every parent in here knows you have no kids because you are trying to make noise.”

Yeap. Attention breeders. Marna is in the house and she’s here to have some fun.

Once home, my Santa workshop opened and I was elf-ing to perpetuate the big lie, except this time I was smarter than my mom. My Santa had different wrapping paper, ribbon, and tags. No 6-year old could CSI my work and figure out Santa was really Daddy. And, instead of hiding the gifts in the trunk, like my dad did, we’re hiding the presents off-site at my place.

This kid better believe or else!