Seven times five
I meant to sleep in this morning; I truly did. If one can’t sleep in on one’s own birthday, when can one? The Goths had other ideas, however.
I picked up a really quite amazing haul from my husband: two Discworld books (including my very own Monstrous Regiment), a DVD of Singin’ in the Rain (which is my favorite movie ever; Debbie Reynolds is forgettable, but Jean Hagen is awesome, Cyd Charisse is the sexiest woman of all time, and in the eternal Kelly-Astaire wars I am firmly in the Kelly camp), and the fourth season of Babylon 5.
My own present to myself was a pair of trail shoes, which I tried out yesterday and today fully intending to return them if they didn’t suit my cranky demanding feet. But it seems they do—nary a blister, not even the beginnings of one, and the soles are nice and bouncy and feel good.
We walked to the zoo, where Leroy the zebu licked our hands and a little tree frog sang me happy birthday. The butterflies are out full force sucking down thistle-juice, and the water-lilies are blooming, and a li’l baby ’skrat poked his nose out of the bay on our way home.
Oh, and we had a nice dinner at the Dardanelles, topped off by their Banana Cashew Cloud, which is the best dessert in Madison. David had a chocolate cake ready for me at home, but I’d had a slice for breakfast, because it’s my birthday and I can do that if I want to.
“I hadn’t any other festivities planned,” he said when we got home. “Though you didn’t get to blow out any candles, and I did get candles.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I really don’t have anything much to wish for.”