Big Birthday List

Here is a list of things I would like to get done before all the people come over for the big birthday party. I like to have a big birthday party every year not because I think it is a big deal that I have gotten worse and less virile, but rather because my social nebula has far too few occasions on which to gather in one place and have a smoke.

1. Finish Brick Path. I started the brick path around the lawn using leftover bricks that the previous homeowner had kind of let "go to seed" and sink under the general debris. I still have about 12' to go before the path is done. I really don't like laying bricks, though, because it is such precise work and involves a lot of being on one's knees and laying on one's side with a rubber mallet, trying to get things level. Last time I worked with the bricks, in 2003, I was so bored with the activity that I made myself a rum and coke and ended up hitting my knuckle with the mallet. I played off the pain (people were watching) by joking that my drink was called the "bricklayer's helper" but to this day I know that I hit my hand because of alcohol.

2. Choose Menu. The key to having a ton of people over and getting them fed is to have 90% of your food ready to go the day before or morning of the party. What should I make? This is hard to say. I should make things which sit well at outside temperature, absorb booze and taste good. I also don't want to break the bank, so maybe we'll do a lot of polenta-based hors d'oeuvres, and grilled kebabs. Perhaps I can finally make a pot roast in that new dutch oven and maybe serve it up shredded like pulled pork next to some sliced rolls and coleslaw for dressing. Oh goodness gracious I am going to serve pot roast with coleslaw to people and I just want to dance around in a little circle with red mules on.

3. Did You Want Me to Get Beer? Yeah, fine, I can do that. I was going to brew a keg of the 2.9% for all-dayers, and bottle some of the 5.8% for the citizens who would be concerned about not getting shitfaced by 4pm under the June sun. In other news, if you half-die under the porch for eight weeks, you'll get to sample some of our plum wine. Provided I find you come August.

4. Jogging Buddy. Ever since 2005 I never go jogging. Maybe I need a "jogging buddy." This would ideally be a simple man with no weird ideas who was pretty dedicated to running approximately three miles each morning. If you are considering this position, remember that I don't have a lot to prove and mainly want to get out of the house. We don't have to talk a lot.

It is interesting to be twenty years apart from the last experience.

The Experience: Stepping in dog poop to the degree that you have to take off the shoe and leave it somewhere for a while.

The Last Time This Happened: I was in an age before memory completely solidified, maybe five. I was being sat by some other kid's family and we went to the grocery store to look at Christmas trees. It was raining. On the way out, I stepped in a dog crotte the size of an eggplant. The thing practically shot up my pants leg and stole my wallet. The best the kid's mom could do was look back and laugh as I stood there panicking.

But Yet, Today: Yeah, I have a dog now. She takes her little Tootsie-Craps on the lawn, and we have this special rake/scooper thing to whisk them away. Only, today the rake caught on something and when it released it flung this little piece of crap between my legs and behind me. I stepped back to find the offensive knob and the heel of my running shoe planted squarely on the thing's soft, glistening carapace. I say "running shoe" to illustrate the extent to which it will be difficult to extricate the feces from the intricate tread.

How is it Different to Step in Crap Now vs. Then: No one was around to laugh at me this time, and unlike the five-year-old me, I have made some headway in the world and am not an unvalidated, snot-nosed wreck all the time.

What am I Going to Do Tomorrow: I am going to leave the soiled shoe on the back deck for the better part of 2005. I'm not the kind of guy who really ever uses shoes again once they've gone tete-a-crotte. I will throw the shoe away when we move to a different house.

Erotically Charged Shoe Purchase

It's Mother's Day tomorrow and my wife is recently a mother. I had already caved and given her her main present during a particularly long and arduous baby-night (a tiny little camera) so today I struck out for more fish. During our morning walks she had been commenting on a contrast-stitched pair of black sandals in a shop window, so I went and picked them up. The staff and customers at the boutique shoe shop knew that I was ripe for a bit of hard-ladygabbing, and they set about me like the equivalent of horny union jackhammer men.

At the sales counter I stood and inspected the shoes which the attendant had brought from the back. Apparently something about my demeanor told them that I was not buying these womens' sandals for myself, and the wedding band further implied that I was to be treated as a quasi-sexualized medicine ball.

A matronly sexpot draped in purple was the first to act. Through a bit of deft conversation she ascertained that the shoes were not for my mother, but rather for my wife, and this led her to comment that she wished she could find a man like me (I am not actually a very good man, it should be noted). She then commented something to the tune of, "the good ones are all taken."

Feeling relieved from social accountability, I hazarded the old chestnut "either we're taken, or we're gay," to which the sexpot and the shopkeeper (another maritime-ready hull) awarded a chorus of what I will call "pleasant-enough erotisqueals."

These old birds were absolutely professional in allowing the little charge to dissipate throughout the shop, and I was able to leave with gift receipt in hand. Not yet sure whether I will tell Liz that the procurement of her Mother's Day present put me squarely in the company of MI(would-not)LFs.