My Husband's Birthday

Today is my husband's birthday and he's not happy about it because he's turning sixty. This pisses me off since Mitch is eleven years my junior, so do the math. How am I supposed to feel with him groaning about entering his 60s when I already have one whole foot in the 70s? Of course, my complaining about his complaining pisses him off, since he says he is never permitted to rue getting older because I always pull out the "I'm So Much Older" card. Thankfully, this is the only issue where our age difference rears its ugly head.

By the time you're this old, birthdays are a bit of a pain in the ass. What do you get the man who has everything, except for the motorcycle he keeps asking for year after year? I got him a book. He can read it safely in bed, without a helmet, and there is no danger it will turn him into a vegetable on life support. Besides, he also got a gift from our cat.

Lurch stayed out last night, a rare occurrence. We tried to get him in but finally gave up and went to bed, hoping he would survive the wildlife we imagine to be prowling about the nearby woods. This morning he darted inside the second I showed up, and I understood why he'd been out all night. Obviously he'd been shopping for Mitch's present, and there it was: a dead mouse laid out ceremoniously on the deck. That Lurch is so thoughtful! (Last year he got him a bird.)

There's more. I'm also baking a cherry-glazed, graham cracker-crusted, sour cream-topped, New York-style cheesecake, Mitch's favorite dessert. (That does not happen in a minute, believe me.) The only tricky part will be getting the candles to stand up in the sour cream long enough to light them all.