For someone my age, I really shouldn't be as yanked about my birthday as I am, but there you are. I've never had a problem telling people how old I am, having the somewhat Pollyannaish view that you're only that age for 365 days (sometimes 366) and you may as well enjoy it while you have it, because in another 365 days, you're one year older. And my 30s have been quite wonderful and decent. My friend Alexis said she wouldn't give anything to be in her 20s again; I'd agree. The 20s really blew. The 30s have been top hat. The 40s can only be better, but I've got a few years to go yet on that one.

Mom always says she has a Polish birthday, referring to Pole weddings that go on for a week or so. (That's what she says.) I'm kind of getting to that level, too — the celebration started a week ago Tuesday, when I went out with Julia to a screening of "The History Boys," had dinner after, and got a lovely green scarf (a real green scarf, and it's not cruel) and a small box from India. Had lunch with Rebecca on Friday — she's a bit too frayed and harried for gifts and cards right now but I got nice email wishes from her. Then the cards came, and Lynda's Amazon Wish List choice landed on the desk on Tuesday — "The Electric Company" on DVD. Hee! There's even a "Silent E" karaoke number, which I sense will get done after many whiskeys. Tuesday night was Bond night, and Cameron slid me a certificate for Barnes & Noble just pre-Bonding. And Lordy, that was a good Bond film. I'm going to go again on Friday night. Seriously. Daniel Craig is one fine specimen.

Today was the big day, so I took off work, went for a fantastic ribs meal at the Blue Smoke Cafe — the Danny Meyer influence lives — walked around town looking for a potions shop that appears to have gone out of business (up in smoke?) — and ended up just buying a few odds and ends before the meal put me into food coma on a bus and I had to head home by way of the library. Just finished up another Neil Gaiman Sandman book and Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," which is the bleakest, most depressing, most — frankly — useless post-apocalyptic book I've ever read. It's pretentious up the wazoo, eschewing apostrophes in contractions and occasionally purposefully (I have to assume) misspelling things like "bye and bye" instead of "things happened by and by." Since it's not exactly Riddley Walker era dystopia, and the lead protaganist was alive during the nuclear holocaust, there's really no reason to imagine that his language skills are slipping in those terms. I'm sure there are purists who will call it poetry; I'll call it rubbish. And there's no arc, not really. Just a slow drag to the end, at which suddenly there's one glimmer of hope and then it's over. So what was the point?

I digress. Post-apocalyptic books aside, it was a very good day. And then it got topped off with flowers — white roses no less — from the sweetie. In a beautiful blue vase. He wanted to make sure I got the blue vase: "It was a whole package." And, coincidentally matches the bedroom. How wonderful is that?

Hope you're happy too.