Happy Birfday to Moi

Birthday Bouquet

It’s been a pretty good birthday so far.

The day started with birthday hugs from two sleepy kids, a beautiful hand-picked bouquet from my dear friend firstmausi—in image form, since her garden is roughly 4,500 miles from my house—and several birthday e-mails and Facebook comments that were remarkably light on the elder-abuse.

Breakfast brought me birthday cards, gift certificates,* the desk lamp I asked for,** and handmade soap my husband found on his last trip to Chicago.  And more hugs, of course.

Before I clocked in this morning, I printed and mailed my Pigeons stuff to The Midwest Writers Workshop,*** and figured out how to print one of Sunny’s stories into a little booklet without swearing too loudly much trouble. 

Hitting a deadline and conquering MS Word?  Not a bad way to celebrate a birthday.

Aaaaand I was challenged to a Poem-Off by none other than indy clause herself, who thinks I should start posting verses from the Twenty-First Century—late Twentieth, tops.  I’m treating it as a special birthday gift. 

I mean, knowing someone cares enough to kvetch about my poetry posts?  Priceless.

Can’t wait to see what the rest of the day brings—besides patrons, since I’m working the evening shift tonight.

And I can’t wait to see what the next year brings, too. 

Maturity maybe?

Yeah . . . me neither.

Scrolling

It’s also the week of my blogoversary:  Three years and 961 posts, including this one. 

I was even freshly pressed last month—and though my stats have settled into something a bit less mind-blowing, the follower number refuses to drop, even though I’m pretty sure at least half of  y’all are actually reading my posts.

Some of you have even been kind enough to hit the like button on occasion and maybe comment or drop me an e-mail—or send me really weird things for Random Thursday. 

Thank you all so much!

 

______________________

*Which I may use to buy a new Bag of All Holding, since my current one is finally starting to shred wear at the straps.

**I recently moved my writing space form the dining room table back to the  rolltop desk in my bedroom.  It’s quieter and a tad more organized, but there’s no overhead light back there, and we old people are highly suspicious of staring at lit pixels in dim light.  Plus, I can’t see the keyboard.

***Where I’ll be rooming with the amazing Sherry Stanfa-Stanley, who knows how to make birthdays count.

 

Advertisements