Happy B-day to Me and Musings on Turning...

song du jour: Happy Birthday to You, Bill Murray in his old lounge lizard act from SNL

mood: could be worse

Some of my strongest memories from childhood summers were the almost daily trips to the nearby drugstore (My father smoked 4-5 packs of cigarettes a day.) that was more like a chi chi 5 & dime but without a cool lunch counter. What they did have was a large Hallmark section, perfect for a strange child, obsessed with stationary, chachkas with sayings, and the best part, Peanuts greeting cards. I'd stay in that section reading those cards until I was dragged out of there. I loved the jokes. That my own child, with almost no influence from me on the subject, is also Snoopy gaga is a freakish thing to witness. I suppose to him as well there is a sympatico with wise, slightly sarcastic children, who get to do and think as they wish with no annoying adults around, save the few no one can understand anyway. "Waaa wa. Waaa wa wa waaaah."

There was one set of tote bags and coffee mugs, which I could not understand no matter how many times I saw them. They said, "I'd rather be 40 than pregnant." Having been quite miserably the latter, as time has marched on, I've begun to understand and embrace that saying more and more. What was once a weird puzzlement to a 10 year old is now practically a mantra to an overworked single parent.

Not, mind you that is a piece of cake turning... turning... turning... Nevermind, I can't possibly admit to the actual number. I showed up to Dance 101 last Wednesday with a box of organic chocolate cupcakes and a bottle of Moet. They were very nice to humor me. A bunch of silly dancers claiming they couldn't possibly eat a cupcake or drink anything before taking class, but I noticed the cupcakes were mostly gone after class, and that bottle was empty long before. (Not by me.) Still, when you best friend puts this on her blog, it's almost worth it to turn another year older.

From Jean:
Happy Birthday Victoria! Here's to ## righteous years and 5 bodacious feet of hip burning, high heel zinging, mummy spying, metal curling, fire throwing, art dreaming, mascara weilding, intellect zooming, laughter rolling, word smithing, friendship flowing, boyfriend rattling, hair whipping, Volvo grooving, chocolate sighing, grand piano dancing, southern belle trilling, sawbone surviving, mama thriving, Skyler blooming, beauty shaking, tell-it-like-it-is-honest-to-goddess-broke-open Love. Not to mention those big boobs. Chicky, you is the original Bomb.

Thanks to all, who sent emails, comments, cards, flowers, and cash. Soon to be uploaded will be the photo of the incredible stained glass and lampwork beads light catcher Jean made and sent me. When Skyler and I opened it up, he exclaimed, "Mommy, she must be your BEST friend to make you something like that! It's beautiful!" True. The week's festivities included and were wrapped up by not one but two trips to Buckhead Diner and their out of body experience homemade chips with blue cheese dressing. The Cookie Monster got me my entire Amazon.com wish list, and left them on my desk in stages over a few days. I was well through the second book in the first stack when it occurred to me I'd been quite the good little Atalanta plopping down in a comfy chair, engrossed in the shiny new apples. (Oh, happy day! Umbertto Eco has finally written another novel as fabulous as his first two.) The only thing I got that I didn't like was a nasty cold. [Sniff.]