Bryce Moore's Blog, page 200

Moving Rooms: Structural, not Surface

Now that DC and MC are getting older, we’re beginning the inevitable process of moving them into the same room in the house. Yes, this involves bunk beds. No, we haven’t bought them yet. But what we have done is swapped out MC’s current room (the guest room) with DC’s current room. DC has been ecstatic about the move, of course. She views it as a major upgrade. Her last room only had one window. The new one? It has 4.

Ironically, MC is also ecstatic about the move so far, mainly because the room she’s moved to used to be DC’s room, and that (by default) means it must have been better than where she’d been sleeping. (If only all global disputes could be solved so easily. Everybody in Ukraine moves to Russia, everybody in Russia moves to Ukraine, and everybody gets an upgrade. Hmm . . . Maybe not . . .)

Of course, Denisa and I (being the busy people we are) have had a limited window of time to do this move. Saturday was the day the bulk of it really had to happen: we needed to transition the office/spare room into a real bedroom for DC. Why? Because DC had already moved in there, and she was treating the room as hers already. (And by definition, anything that exists in your room is fair game for you to look at, play with, alter, etc. Including computers and office equipment, apparently.)

We mapped out a plan of attack: ditch the old office chair and desk that had been there (putting them in the front yard with a “FREE” sign on them usually does the trick), exchange the contents of the two closets, move the futon, throw away the old computers (they would be recycled), and move a book case or two. Plenty of work for a few hours on a Saturday. It went off without a hitch, for the most part.

The biggest problem I found was my incessant need to actually clean and sort things. I had to keep telling myself over and over: “Structural, not surface.” The goal wasn’t to make things look prettier. The goal was making them work. If I’d focused too much on the surface level looks, I’d never have had time to get all the changes done that needed to happen that day.

Really, this is the same way I approach my early revisions. I can’t worry about little things like descriptions or grammar or spelling or wordsmithing. I’ve got to focus on getting the big pieces of the puzzle into place. Otherwise, you get everything just so, only to have to turn around and mix it all up again the next moment.

The more I think about it, the more it seems like this is a pretty overarching principle. Focus on the big things first. Get those taken care of. Once they are, you’ll have time to go back and fix the little things later on. It works for budgeting, priorities, home renovation, landscaping, relationships . . . Is there anything this doesn’t apply to?

Possibly cake decorating, I suppose. Something where all that matters is the looks, not the taste.

Pick Your Own YA Fantasy Part 4

[Welcome to part four of my continuing blog series. I write the book, you pick the plot. For earlier parts, see part 1, part 2, and part 3.]

John wanted to go with the Italians. He’d made his mind up to go with them, even. They were the next group heading in, and the sooner he could get into the pyramid, the better. But there’s a difference between wanting to do something and actually doing it. John wasn’t a trained spy. He didn’t even have much experience lying about finishing his homework.

The problem was, any time John tried to do anything the least bit nefarious, his ears turned red. Not a slight red, either. A bright, blushing red that he could feel pointing a big arrow at his face that said “GUILTY” in neon flashing letters. That’s how it felt, anyway. And as soon as John headed over to the Italians, his ears started doing their trick, and he ended up turning aside at the last moment, pretending to check out the architecture of the entryway instead of actually going in.

So he stood there, watching the Italians chitter chatter there way into the pyramid, all the while wishing he were braver. It wasn’t a pretty five minutes for his ego.

But it did make him much more motivated to go in with the next group: the French.

John swallowed his doubts and his fears, held his chin high, and made a beeline to the boy he’d noticed in the group. The one who had seemed so friendly and open. If he could find someone to cover for him, John was sure he’d have an easier time making into the pyramid. It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the strange boy that John realized he didn’t actually have a plan for what to say to him.

“Pourquoi vos oreilles si rouge?” the boy asked.

John didn’t speak any French. “Uh–I–that is–do you–” He stammered, trying to find something to say. Anything to say.

The boy looked over at some of the other kids in the group, then called out, “Venez voir ce garçon américain. Ses oreilles ressemblent à des panneaux d’arrêt. Ils sont pratiquement néon.”

In a flash, the other kids had gathered around John, all of them speaking in quick French, and none of them making any effort to actually communicate with him. John might not have spoken French, but he was fluent in Bully, and these kids were giving off some major “we’re making fun of you” vibes. Laughing and pointing and snickering. None of it nice. John had never been out of America before. He certainly had no experience being surrounded by a group of people all speaking in a foreign language. He wished he knew what they were saying, though part of him wondered if that would only make this worse.

John’s ears were burning brighter than they’d ever burned before. “English?” he said at last. “Do any of you speak English?”

“What time is it?” the first boy asked him. When had John thought he seemed like he must be nice?

“Which way to the toilet?” another kid asked.

“Is your name Brad Pitt?” The questions and comments in English picked up the pace, coming from every corner now. John was regretting his choice to be brave and try to make a new friend.

Then a girl’s voice spoke out from behind him. “Quel est le problème avec vous tous des idiots? Étiez-vous tout élevé par une meute de bouffons sauvages?”

The boys quieted at once, staring behind John with their mouths hanging open. John turned to see the German girl standing there–the one he had thought was so good looking.

The one with the dimple.

The girl said some more things in French, the words flowing off her tongue so easily. The boys didn’t have a chance. They protested a few times, and one or two made efforts to talk back to the girl, but she was having none of it. Once again, John wished he could understand what she was saying, mainly so he could take some notes on how to handle a situation like that in the future.

At last, the pack of boys headed off, leaving John alone with the girl. “Why do you do that?” she asked him in accented English.

“Do what?”

“Let yourself be pushed around by strangers.”

John shrugged, uncomfortable. “I didn’t let them. They were just being mean.”

She snorted in derision. “They are only mean because you allowed them to be. You must show people like that who is in control. Make them fear you, because they are only afraid themselves.”

John tried to think of something to say to that. Something she’d find witty and interesting. Something to salvage his self-esteem. But as usual, he tried too hard and took too long. The girl spoke before he came up with anything.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she asked him.

Once again, John froze. What was he supposed to do? He could tell her the truth, or he could try to lie, and hope his ears didn’t give him away. It was clear he wasn’t going to get in with the French, even though that had been his original choice. Was there still a way to salvage things with the Germans? But how?

Make a Choice

Is John going for the truth or a lie? When you vote this time, feel free to put in a nomination for what sort of a lie he should tell, or how he should broach telling the truth. I’m thinking this would be more fun if you all had some more input into the direction the story is going beyond a simple popular vote. I’m also noticing that the story seems to be spinning its wheels a bit. Some of that is no doubt due to the 1,000 words per week pace. I have a goal to get things going more quickly, but each week it just doesn’t seem to come together. Feel free to offer suggestions! I’d like this story to be as much yours as it is mine.

Thanks for all the votes so far!

DC Reviews Jamberries

My sister just started a Jamberry nails business, and she wanted some input from the seven-year-old crowd, so she sent some nails to DC and asked her to review them. So without further ado, I present you with DC’s review of Jamberries. Enjoy!

Jamberry nails are stickers. They’re like these stickers that you put on you, but you’re putting them on your nails. You have to put them by somewhere warm, and you have to cut them in half so they fit you. You put them on instead of nail polish.

To put them on, you first match up your nails to the stickers, and then you cut them in half. The stickers. Not your nails. And you warm it up by something warm, like a heater or a hair dryer or something that is a thing that keeps you warm in your house. About maybe three or two minutes. [NOTE: My sister let me know it's just 4 or 5 seconds.] And then they’re ready. Then you put them on. You have to cut the remaining sticker, and then put your nail by the warming thing that you’re using. Do all of the nails, and then there’s a pink or other colors thing that is rectangle shaped, and with that thing, you scrape off the little pieces that you might have not cut on your nail. [ANOTHER NOTE: She means a nail file.]

When it’s done, it looks pretty. I got cherries and stripes. After a while when they’re kind of banged up, they might come off. But they might not. And don’t try to peel the stickers off, because they will come off. My friends use them too, and if you need any more help, you can look on Youtube for how to put on Jamberries, and then they’ll tell you to.

I think they’re good to wear anytime. There are lots of different patterns, and just choose them and hopefully you’ll be happy with them. On a scale of 1 to 10, I would give them a 10. I really liked them. And that’s all you need to know for Jamberries!

There you go, folks. I think that’s the longest thing she’s dictated to me. It was a fun thing for her and Denisa to do, and DC really enjoyed it. If you want to find out more, go check out my sister’s storefront online.

Why Did the Turkey Cross the Road?

[image error]Forget chickens, people. If a chicken crosses the road, it’s not going to do much to your car, even at freeway speeds. I’m thinking you’ll get something like a brief white burst of feathers, and then you might have to run the wipers a bit, but nothing structural. Nothing that might involve calling your insurance company.

Turkeys, on the other hand . . .

There I was on Friday. Zip zooming my way to Bangor for my monthly directors meeting. Minding my own business. I love wildlife and my car, and I didn’t set out to harm either one of them that morning. All is well in the world. Until (for some inexplicable reason) a turkey decided that the best time to cross the freeway would be right when my car was coming.

This is Maine, people. it’s not exactly bumper to bumper traffic nonstop. If that turkey had wanted to cross the road, there were many many times it could do so without coming anywhere near an automobile, let alone my automobile.

But no. It chose that precise time. And those turkeys have evolved to blend into the underbrush, folks. It swooped in out of nowhere from my right. One minute, I was looking at a completely turkey-free road, and the next, there’s this large something racing in from the side.

You’d think I wouldn’t have had time to think. That it would have been too fast to come up with a plan. But I distinctly remember having three plans flash through my head the moment I saw the turkey:

Swerve to miss it. This was my first instinct, but when put up for a nomination, the rest of my mind voted it down. Swerving at freeway speeds seldom ends in good things.
Slam on the brakes. Again, dismissed on the grounds that I didn’t have time to check and see who was behind me.
Hit the thing dead on. Nobody spoke up against the idea, so that’s what I went with.

There was a loud thud, and a puff of feathers, along with a limp bird body that got thrown up onto my windshield. I had enough time to think “That’s a turkey!” before the wind caught it and flung it to the side of the road.

“What do I do now?” I wondered. The turkey was off to the side–and quickly disappearing in the rearview mirror. Do I stop and check on it? The thought of me scurrying around the freeway after a demolished Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t too pleasant, and since I knew the thing was well out of the road, I kept driving. Then came the more important question:

Did it do anything to my car?

I mean, I love me some animals, but that turkey had it coming, and my car didn’t. Still, I didn’t hear any noises, and nothing seemed to be broken, so I kept driving.

When I arrived in Bangor, I assessed the damage. It’s up on Facebook if you want to head over and check it out, but it’s not pretty. Significant dent in the hood, broken grill. It’s like my car is missing a few teeth in its lovely smile.

So I’ve been on the phone with the insurance company, and I’m going to get an estimate tomorrow morning. Really, at this point it’s just an irritant, and I realize it could have been much worse. (Anytime you’re driving 70mph and hit something, there’s a whole lot of things that can go wrong.)

But I just can’t help wondering over and over: WHY? Why did the turkey cross the road. WHY???

Potential answers?

It was the chicken’s day off.
To escape Thanksgiving.
Because he wasn’t a chicken.
???

Daredevil Review

Denisa and I finished the first season of Daredevil the other night. We’d really been enjoying it, but I wanted to wait until I was through with the whole thing before I gave my final verdict, one way or another.

I loved it, over all.

What excites me the most with what Marvel is doing with their television shows is that it has the potential for long running, intersecting stories. A mirror of comic books, but on television. Yes, they’ve done that with film, but I feel like tv series are a better fit for the format. They can develop the characters much more deeply in 13 hours per “book” than 2 hours per “book.” if that makes sense. And if they actually do a good job with it . . .

Exciting times.

What did I like about this series in particular? The story was pretty compact and tight. The characters were well depicted and complex. People don’t do things for random reasons. They don’t always do the predictable thing, either. I love it when a show can surprise me, and Daredevil managed to do that a few times. Another big plus is that consequences matter in the show, and they come quick and often. One of the things that turned me off from Burn Notice was the fact that the show just fell into too much of a routine. Each episode, you’d have the main characters help someone in need, and then get dribbled out a little bit of new information concerning the big plot.

Watch it long enough, and you start to realize the big plot is just one big tease. All questions were answered with more questions, and it took forever to do so.

That’s not the case with Daredevil, and thank goodness.

Now, the series wasn’t perfection. It’s a bloody show, no doubt about it. That might turn some people off. I personally wish they had kept it to a TV-14 rating, instead of TV-MA, but the good news is they didn’t throw in the random sex and other garbage Netflix and HBO have proved fond of in the past. So that’s something.

Ironically, the other thing I had a hard time swallowing was the final reveal of Daredevil’s outfit. (I don’t think I’m spoiling anything here, since it’s all over the Netflix promos for the show.) So much of the series takes place in gritty reality that when Matt Murdock finally puts on the costume, he seems almost comical. It was a bit too over the top, and it felt out of place in the show. Strange, I know. But there it is.

Still, the show’s proven itself capable of handling the material well, and I imagine this is something I’ll get over with more seasons and more familiarity with the character.

Really, if you’re looking for a great way to spend 13 hours of your life, this is a good show to check out. A bit more mature than what I’d show my kids, but right in line with other Marvel movies. In other words, don’t let the TV-MA rating turn you off this one. If you enjoyed The Avengers, you’ll enjoy this. It’s darker, grittier, and there’s a bit more of the red stuff, but it’s a solid first foray into Netflix series for Marvel.

The Birthday Boy

Didn’t I just write a birthday post the other day? Yes. Yes, I did. Of course, there’s a big difference between a two year old’s birthday and an eleven year old’s birthday. MC was generally just excited to be doing anything that involved balloons, cake, and mysterious surprises that come out of boxes. She had no expectations. Easy to please.

TRC is turning 11. This isn’t his first rodeo. He knows what he wants, he knows what to expect, and he’s been looking forward to this for a long time.

Then again, from a parent’s point of view, both birthdays are amazingly similar, in that I just can’t believe my kids continue to get older. I suppose this is a feeling that won’t really dim with time. There’ll come a time when I look back at TRC being 11 and be amazed he was ever that young (or that he’s already as old as however old he’ll be when that day comes), just as I look back on TRC being 2 and am surprised the same way.

Honestly, I get along much better with older children. I have a hard time with babies. They’re fun, and I love them (well, my own at least), but I never know what to do with them. I never have that problem with TRC. He wants to do what I want to do: play games, read books, watch movies, and have fun.

Maybe I’m still 11 too . . .

His current favorite activities remain Minecraft and Doctor Who. (We’ve been going back and rewatching the early episodes of the new series over the last month of so. He hasn’t seen those yet, Denisa and I have.) He loves taking things apart, but he loves creating things even more. He loves finding out as much about something that interests him that he can. If it doesn’t interest him, he’d just as soon forget it exists.

Again, I can certainly relate.

I keep wondering when everything will fall apart. When he’ll start being a rebellious teen who doesn’t want to be seen in public with me, let alone do anything together. That hasn’t happened still, and I continue to hold out hope that it won’t. I try hard to take time to spend with all my kids, though I think I do the best job of it with TRC. Our interests just overlap so much.

Anyway. Not much to add to this post except to continue to brag about how awesome he is. I’m his dad. That’s my job. Here’s wishing him a very happy birthday, and a very public thank you for all the hard work he puts in around the house and with our family.

John and the Djinn: Pick Your Own YA Fantasy Part 3

[Welcome to part three of my continuing blog series. I write the book, you pick the plot. For part 2, please see here, and part 1 is here.]

“I’m going to sneak in with some of the other tourists,” John said, wishing his voice sounded more confident.

Khalid raised his eyebrows. “Wearing bear claw slippers and pajamas? You’ve got some interesting definitions of ‘sneak.’”

John blushed, glancing down at his clothes. He’d forgotten he still wasn’t dressed. Getting transported by djinn in the middle of the night will do that to you. He cleared his throat and said, “I know that. I was thinking you’d . . . change my appearance before I have to try sneaking. We’re far enough away from the entrance for magic to still be okay, right?”

“Masterfully deduced,” the djinn said. “Though I must warn you that magic becomes unstable the closer we get to the portal. A disguise that’s working here might completely backfire at an inopportune moment.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Khalid clapped his hands together, and a wave of cool air blasted over John from his head to his feet. He blinked, and when he checked his clothes again, he was wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and sandals with socks. A camera was slung around his neck. He frowned at Khalid. “Really? Sandals with socks?”

“You’re the one who wanted to blend in with the tourists, kiddo. It’s better than bear claws.”

Point taken. John squared his shoulders and started to head off toward the pyramids, striding through the deep sand and wishing he had something to drink.

“Hold on there, fido!” Khalid hurried to catch up to him. “You need to bring the book, and you need to know which pyramid to go to.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

The djinn shook his head. “I told you. Magic makes the portal unstable. The less I’m around, the better. I’ll check in now and then to see how you’re doing, but this is your adventure, not mine.”

“But what if I need help?”

“Adventures aren’t adventures unless lives are endangered. Everybody knows that. Besides, you’ve got the Lost Tome of Ra. It should have some interesting insights when you need them.”

An icicle of fear sank down John’s spine. “But I can’t . . . die, right?” Surely the djinn wouldn’t let him endanger his life. This was a favor to his Great Uncle Urville, after all. And Khalid had promised to get John back before the cake was done baking.

Khalid smiled. “Death! The greatest adventure of them all! Here’s the book, there’s the pyramid. See you in an hour or two!” With a quick point and a poof, the djinn vanished from sight, leaving a slightly smoking book lying on the sand next to John. The eye on the cover was open and glaring at him. John glanced at the book, then at the pyramid Khalid had pointed to, then back to the book. With a sigh, he picked it up.

Today was not going as planned.

He flipped the book open. It was all written in hieroglyphics. Just a bit of leafing through it was enough to convince John he wasn’t going to find any help there. Lousy djinn. All John knew was the entrance to the library was somewhere in a pyramid. Hidden. Magical. He had a book he couldn’t read, was alone with people he didn’t know, and was supposed to get to a door he didn’t know how to open.

This was a lousy adventure.

But it was also his only way home. So taking a deep breath and holding on tight to the book (careful to avoid touching the eyeball, of course), John headed to the pyramid.

He could quickly see he was going to have to be somewhat selective about which group he went in with. The Japanese tourists, while plentiful, didn’t exactly allow him to blend in. And while there were some Europeans there, they all seemed to be non-English speaking. Germans, Italians, French. How was he supposed to sneak in with a group if he didn’t even speak their language? He spent some time examining the other groups. looking for the best fit as he pretended to photograph the pyramids and passing camels.

The French group had about thirty people, mostly families. A few had kids his age. There was a boy who seemed open and friendly enough. He was interested in what was around him and talked to the other people in his group, at least. Maybe John could be approach him and see if he’d help. It would be good to have some assistance, since the djinn had bailed on him.

Then again, the German group was almost entirely made up of kids his age. Who knew how they’d afforded it. Maybe it was trip for a school for rich kids? A girl in the group kept looking at him as he passed by, whispering to her friends and laughing in a way that made John think she was making fun of him. He’d be able to blend in better with that bigger group, but not if she caused a scene. Plus, she was good looking: long brown hair and a dimple when she smiled.

John was intimidated by dimples.

And besides, a third group–the Italians–was heading in first. Right now. There were no kids in the group, but all the adults were engrossed in each others conversations. In John’s experienced, they were probably distracted enough that no one would object if he tagged along (assuming the people taking tickets as you walked in didn’t notice.) They were already approaching the entrance. John was out of time. He looked between the Germans, the French, and the Italians, and he made a choice based on gut instinct alone.

Make a Choice

Time to vote, peoples! Is John going to go with the French (and try to befriend the boy his age), the Germans (and deal with that mysterious girl somehow), or the Italians (and try to go in solo)? Get your vote in by Sunday evening!

DIY or Hire It Out?

I have a confession to make. I’m thinking about hiring out my next construction project again. It feels like a great betrayal of my inclination to do things on my own and save money, but when I had someone do the dormers for me last year, it was just so . . .

Easy.

I didn’t have to scramble to figure out what I was doing. I didn’t have to teach myself the right way to get something done and then figure out how to apply that knowledge in real life. I didn’t have to have this gnawing dread at the back of my head that something I was doing was going to go wrong.

I also didn’t have to be off gallivanting on my roof, afraid I was going to fall down and break something any minute. So there’s that . . .

What am I looking at right now? Basically insulating and finishing off the ceiling of my addition. And it’s not that I just am feeling lazy. It’s that a whole bunch of it is really high off the ground, and I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to get that high up to put up the boards.

Writing that, i do see that maybe I’m just wanting to take the easy way out too much. With a bit of scaffolding or even some ladders, I’m pretty sure I could make it there . . .

See, this is what happens. I think about a project that needs doing, and then I think about the actual steps involved, and then I convince myself that I can do all those steps on my own, because why in the world would I want to pay someone to do it for me? I suppose the fact that I’m beginning to consider paying other people says that I’m either coming to my senses or getting to the point where my time is worth more to me than my money.

There are worse points to be getting to, I suppose . . .

What will I decide to do? No clue still. I’m only in the “pondering” stage at the moment. I’m also pondering my way into figuring out which bunk beds to get my daughters. And deciding if this is the year we take down the huge tree in the backyard.

Lots of big money ponders. Stay tuned . . .

Life Lesson: Don’t Drop It

There are huge swathes of my life where I feel like everything is running according to plan these days. It’s like my life has become an endless cycle of rinse and repeat. You don’t need much effort to keep a clock running, after all. Just remember to wind the thing now and then, and you’re good to go.

The funny thing is, do anything for long enough, and it can become difficult.

Case in point: I remember back in the days when I watched Survivor, there was one challenge that involved contestants standing on a pole in the middle of a pond. That was it. Just stand there. It wasn’t a huge pole, but it was big enough to stand on. Sort log-sized. And at first it seemed like such a no-brainer. What sort of an idiot can’t stand on a pole for a while?

But then time started to pass, and you began to see how good of a challenge it really was.

Some contestants just started looking at their options and decided there were better things to be doing than wasting their time on this challenge. They jumped off. Some contestants were committed, but lost their balance through a fluke, or got overconfident. It was hours and hours, as I recall, before a final winner was proclaimed, and it was a grueling process to get there.

(This actually also reminds me of the documentary Hands on a Hard Body, which depicted a contest for a pickup truck. People all put a hand on the truck at the same time. The last person to remove their hand, won. Much more riveting than you’d think.)

Maybe you can already see where I’m going with this. Life is difficult, even when we’re doing the things that seem like they should be simple. It’s too easy to lose focus, or to get distracted by things that don’t matter. Sure, it can feel like we’re in “rinse and repeat” mode at times, but all it takes is something to go wrong in that process to remind us how wonderful rinse and repeat really can be.

I don’t have anything huge to add to this. I’m not going through any crises or anything that brought this into focus. It’s just a thought I had, and I wanted to get it down in blog form. And that’s my deep thought for you this fine Monday morning.

The Terrific Two Year Old

Who says two year olds need to be terrible? It’s true that they can be little dictators, of course. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re just reaching the point in their life when they realize that they can have opinions. They can want to do things, or not want to do things. They’re discovering they can say no, and they love the heady feeling of power that accompanies that knowledge.

MC certainly does, at least. It’s so hard to believe that she’s already two. It seems like a few days ago that Denisa and I were debating adding a third child to the mix, and here we are, with that third child fully present and accounted for, a full-fledged member of the family.

Now that she’s two, it’s becoming easier to see the things she likes and doesn’t like as an individual. She continues to be the world’s best napper. Doing some quick math, she sleeps about 17 hours a day. Two long naps every day still, and if she doesn’t get them, she’s not a happy camper.

She’s a big fan of drawing, dancing, and making funny jokes. She loves to help around the house and likes to keep things clean and tidy. (If I shared her passion for cleaning, my house would be spotless all the time.) She’s also really into good tasting food. Fruits, vegetables. Those are all great in her book.

Clearly she’s taking after Denisa.

Things she’s not so into?

Getting dirty, finishing food she dislikes, people not paying attention to her . . . Maybe her dislikes are still at the universal stage, come to think of it. But those likes are definitely unique to her, judging by how TRC and DC were at her age.

Having three children continues to be something that pushes me beyond my comfort zone. That’s a good thing. It’s a place I don’t get out of often enough. But I must say I have no idea how I’d be coping if my little two year old weren’t as awesome as she is. Yesterday she sat and watched the Star Wars announcement with me, clapping along with the crowd whenever something particularly noteworthy came up. (Her favorite bit? Seeing R2-D2 and checking out the new droid, BB8. Maybe there’s some geeky hope for her yet.)

In any case, a very happy birthday to her. We’ll be celebrating by the traditional cake and ice cream. And I’ll even have a slice in her honor. (Who says I’ve totally given up on sugar?) But just one slice.