| December 16, 1999
Jen brought the bouquet of flowers into my office yesterday morning.
are from Franz," she
announced, and placed them with a flourish on the credenza behind me:
a lavish and elegant arrangement of pine boughs, red carnations, white
roses and gold ornaments.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "They're beautiful! Does Franz know he sent me flowers?"
"Of course not," Jen replied.
That's what I figured. "Then he probably doesn't know that he's having my lunch delivered, either," I said. And I picked up the phone to call Le Grille and place my sandwich order.
So what exactly went wrong yesterday? How did things go so hideously awry? Why was yesterday's birthday the worst I can ever remember? (Worse, even, than the year that chicken pox felled half my fourth grade class, and only three people showed up for my birthday party?)
It has nothing to do with being another year older. I honestly don't mind being 42 years old. Why should I? I feel great. I look great: on a good day, I can easily pass for a well-preserved 41.
It has nothing to do with the state of my life, either, which is mostly-fine, or with the state of my health (sneeze on me! I am Impervious Grrl!), or with the state of our *union* (DRaftervoi and Secra = still in perpetual honeymoon mode).
Nope. I think a lot of it had to do with being separated from my family again this year. And before anyone lands into me with "And whose fault is that, Miss 'I'm-Gonna-Move-Three-States-Away-With-a-Guy-I-Met-in-an-AOL-Chat Room'?," I would like to declare -- once again, for the record -- that I take full responsibility for the choices I've made. I'm living in California because I want to live in California. But that doesn't make being away from my kids -- and my family -- any less painful, especially on an important occasion ... like a birthday.
(Or a Mother's Day. Or an Arbor Day. Or a Tuesday .)
I spoke to all three of the Tots on the phone yesterday, and exchanged e-mail with a handful of other *key* family members. I'll be seeing all of them in less than a week, anyway. But somehow it just isn't the same as sitting around the kitchen table, eating soggy coconut cake, being serenaded by earnest off-key Tots, waiting to open my new Tabu Gift Set.
I think some of it had to do with Franz, too, and with the fact that I work for a man who can schedule a company-wide meeting, one day in advance, and then proceeds to flip out when the Colorado *contingent* doesn't show.
And some of it probably had to do with the fact that David has still not been fully trained. He's coming along quite nicely in most departments: he's nice to my mother, he leaves the toilet seat down, he pretends to like Collective Soul, he almost never breaks the yolks when he's flipping the eggs. But when it comes to birthdays, we clearly still have some work to do. (Maybe next year: that romantic dinner for two?)
But mostly I think it had to do with the fact that I'm a great big baby. A great big cranky self-absorbed forty-two-year-old baby who doesn't mind taking responsibility for her personal happiness 364 days a year ... but expects someone else to carry the ball on that 365th day.
Somebody buy me a pony, quick.
At 6 p.m last night I was still sitting at my desk at work, blearily playing Elf Bowl, waiting for David to come and rescue me. I already knew that our romantic dinner plans were a wash ... but that was OK. At that point all I really wanted to do was go home to The Castle, kick off the uncomfortable shoes, and crawl into bed with a sandwich and a library book and go to sleep obscenely early. (Which is pretty much exactly how the rest of the evening played out ... except for the sandwich and the library book.)
blurb #1 will go HERE:
watch. tomorrow i'll write a big apologetic website entry, all about
how wonderful david is, and how i don't deserve him & all of
vast reserves of wonderfulness, and how i have no right to expect him
to *read my mind* and intuitively KNOW
that i would like birthday breakfast in bed -- even if it's nothing
more than a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch and a limp slice of happy
panda toast -- and roses sent to my office, and a telephone serenade
during my mid-afternoon coffee break, and a romantic candlelit dinner
served at a table with a real tablecloth on it --
menus and crayons -- and a big soggy coconut birthday cake with
forty-two candles plunked into it [and a tinfoil-wrapped safety pin,
hidden somewhere in the middle, for good luck].
who knows? if i'm in a really good mood tomorrow [read this: if i've recovered sufficiently from *the birthday*], i might even say something nice about franz.
special *howdy* to: i want to take a moment out of my busy bitching-and-moaning schedule to extend a warm *welcome to the world [you're gonna hate your december birthday]* to the newest 'grilla:
~ Grace Cassidy Morrison ~
Born: Wednesday, 15 December, 1999 -- 8:45 P.M.
Proud [Yet Still-Amazingly-Vibrant-and-Youthful] Grandma: FifiOToole
here's where i'll ask
a *relevant* question:
amazingly profound thought of the day:
forties are the old age of youth;
[oh great. does that mean i'm still gonna be a big baby when i'm fifty?]