Sweet Potato, Buckaroo, and I attended a birthday party for our neighbor, Curly, who turned three. Buckaroo had much fun hug tackling Curly's dog, Annie. Sweet Potato enjoyed the shrimp tremendously, and I tried not to say too much about politics. On the walk home, I spied the lake, and we all stopped so I could take this picture. I hoped to capture (on camera) a jumping fish, but Buckaroo was impatient to go home.R did not join us because he's on his way to -- or perhaps just arrived in-- Texas.
Last night I went to a birthday party for another friend, Frog Mama. She turned 42. We all played the game where each of us had the name of a famous person taped on our backs, and we had to ask yes or no questions until we figured out who it was. I had Einstein. He's a tricky fellow.
There was good food, good music, good conversation, and kids running around blowing into recorders and trading baby dolls. I left there with a belly full of cake thinking that I would like to have a birthday party this year.
I always liked to do my birthday big, but until last year I didn't realize that my big birthdays were in response to my dad forgetting my birthday every year. It didn't matter that he forgot, as long as I was surrounded by people who loved me.
So last year when there was no him, no secretly hoping he'd remember, there was nothing, and I didn't want to celebrate nothing. I think, in the end, R wooed me out to dinner.
I thought this year would be the same, especially because I thought I wouldn't have any friends. I have made a friend or two, though, and I think we could squeeze them into our house for a birthday/holiday kick-off. R says we can all hang out in the basement and take turns sawing and drilling things if necessary.
Every year in California my birthday brought the rain, and I'm wondering if in Massachusetts it will bring snow.
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In other news, Sweet Potato has joined a hip hop class. That girl can really shake her tail feathers. She must get it from her dad's side of the family.
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