"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..."

"Hi, Mom."

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...."

"I can't believe I'm thirty-five."

There was silence. "You're thirty-five!?!? OH MY GOD!"

"Ma, how old did you think I was?"

"I wasn't sure. Not that old, though!"


"Well, don't worry about it. None of it really matters until you're sixty."

Why do I find that strangely non-comforting?

Anyhow. I've been having the greatest birthday ever, including surprise party Friday night. My husband told me we were going to have dinner with a bunch of his colleagues. Even emailed me their bios so I'd be able to make conversation about insurance law, which may well be the topic least conducive to small talk I've ever encountered. ("So! Fires, huh?") When we got to the restaurant, all of my friends were there.

Of course, in my shock, I blurted out, "Thank God it's not the lawyers!," forgetting that, of the ten people there, four of them are lawyers. ("Just not boring ones!" my friend Sharon said).

We spent the weekend in New York, sans baby. Saw some shows, went out for nice meals, and my pleasure in the weekend was only enhanced by the thought that, at any given moment of the day (or night), Michael Chabon and Ayelet Waldman were probably doing it.