My father and his fiancee were in town all weekend long to celebrate my birthday, and we'd spent that time eating lobster and wandering the cobblestone streets of Portland, eating crab and hunting for bargains in Freeport, and, of course, taking the mandatory I'm in Front of the Big Boot picture at L.L. Bean. We had an official birthday dinner where we drank peach martinis and muddled Old Fashioneds and ate duck and prime rib and crab cakes. Then we came home and drank champagne and ate thick slices of coconut cake from a bakery that smelled like spun-sugar, even out in its parking lot.
I totally milked my day. Totally milked it, just like always, just like tradition. I got excited every time I went down the stairs to collect the cards from my mailbox, and I got excited every time there was a knock on my door--the mailman dropping off another package from New York, from Minnesota, from Wisconsin. I got excited each time I tore open the wrapping paper and found books and shirts about cow tipping and Spam singles and treats for Abbey. It was a good day. A very good day. And definitely better than last year, when I, in the first few weeks of my first semester as a full-timer, had to teach until 9:00 and then come home to an empty apartment--no cat, no boyfriend, no family, no friends--and open a bottle of champagne and cut into a slice of dry grocery store cake by myself. This birthday was an awful lot more festive than that, as you can imagine: