A Note from the Dog

Unfortunately for Houseboy, the nickname has stuck.

But lucky for me, I don't even have to call him. I know when he's in the neighborhood. The maniac dog starts moaning and groaning. She destroys window sills trying to find him and wishing for him to come over.

Today is Houseboy's birthday. Gabby is wishing him happy 29th! Or whatever.

Ladies Who Lunch

This is a running joke in my household. The husband has a false impression that I run around shopping every day -- only stopping to lunch with girlfriends or my mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. I rarely shop. My typical lunch is leftovers from whatever we had for dinner the night before, eaten at the kitchen table while I go through the mail. If I go really crazy, I might grab a to-go sandwich from the deli next to my dry cleaners.

Yesterday was an exception. My mother and I had lunch in honor of her birthday. We went super crazy. Instead of champagne and caviar, we each had a salad and a slice of pizza. (And I kept the leftovers for my dinner.) We skipped champagne and each had a soda. We are party animals.

I have been accused of being "out to lunch" and occasionally that is true. I'm more likely to be in for lunch.

The Birthday Week

In celebration of Father's Day, we took the oldies out for dinner. Actually, we take them out quite a bit but this time we had cards and a toast to the men. I told the husband to enjoy his Father's Day time because at the stroke of midnight, the attention turns to me. It's my birthday week.

Nothing special happens during birthday week. I just enjoy saying it. "Be nice to me, it's my birthday week." "I don't want to do that and I don't have to, it's my birthday week."

They say you're as old as you feel. If that's true, I'll be turning 150-years old this week. Look for me on the Smucker's jar when Willard Scott celebrates oldies.