We are in Dayton for the weekend to celebrate the domestic partner's grandmother's 95th birthday. Which totally trumps the epic accomplishment of my 40th birthday last week, but in the spirit of my boundless magnanimity we are choosing not to dwell on that at the moment. Even though—if I may point this out—I successfully turned 40 just eight days ago with no lost teeth, no embarrassing stains and no pushing. And only three boiled cakes.
But since we're on the topic of MY birthday, let me take a moment to report that the domestic partner got me the Young Frankenstein cast album as part of a suite of lavish birthday gifts. And we listened to it last night on our six-hour road trip. And it's really quite good. Especially Doug Besterman's lush, inventive orchestrations. And Sutton Foster's mad yodeling skilz. And what, really, is life without yodeling ingénues?
But I digress. We are here for the domestic partner's grandmother's birthday. And I must focus. Because there will be a dinner tonight. With cake. If I'm lucky. And yodeling. If I'm luckier.
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