I have a March birthday, but it’s not today. I’m being taken out to a Mexican dinner in Paris tonight by my darling husband, who has showered me with affection for days (years, in truth, I’m a lucky girl). On Monday he went out and got me a big ball of chocolatey cakey goodness from our superb little corner boulangerie/patisserie for dessert, which we almost never have. I’m just not a big dessert person. My kid wrote “Happy birthday momma!! I love you!!” on my Facebook wall for all the world to see (as did some friends, some of whom I’ve actually met, though their messages were not quite like that, of course). My brother sent me a harried Skype message a day late, which I eventually got when I signed in after a few more days (it was really only one more day, but it felt like several), during which time I thought he’d forgotten me completely. My mom sent me two great cards (she just turned 70 and has a kick-ass sense of humor), in which she said some really touching things. My French mother-in-law co-called me with her husband from California. My step-daughter sent me an e-card (the day of, from the next room) featuring a sophisticated woman and champagne, which she chose, she said, for it’s somewhat “parisio-français” feel. A couple of old friends sent e-mails.
I got a coupon by e-mail for a free milkshake at the Corvette Diner in San Diego, which I used to love, except for the noise level (though the last time I went there they had changed the turkey they used for the truck stop turkey sandwich and it was pretty much crap) from the rock station I used to listen to. Didn’t get one last year or the year before… They’ve obviously re-subscribed me, which is annoying… That made me a little homesick. But a margarita with dinner tonight and Vincent’s love oughtta take care of that.
I feel exceptionally birthdayed this year, although in a decidedly scattered, chaotic, asynchronous, multimedia, old-school, high-tech, tangible, virtual, transcontinental, multicultural way, which utimately is a perfect reflection of my everyday reality and, thus, nothing out of the ordinary except that it was about my birthday instead of just regular stuff.
That’s all.