Don't Mince Words

Yesterday was my birthday. No big deal and usually a nonevent for me, but when other people need an excuse to celebrate, I’m game. I mean, if there’s chocolate or beer involved, how horrible could it be.

GC took me to dinner at a swank place last night. As he held my hand and looked into my eyes he asked, “how old are you anyway?” I guess in our early courting rituals, we never got around to that detail.

“I’m 43. You too can look like me if you start your eye cream habit early,” I revealed.

“Oh, so you are only a year and a half older than me. We don’t look our age,” he said.

When it came time to order dessert, I knew I had matured. I got the baked apples instead of the chocolate gateau.

Another year wiser.

Most people’s soundtrack for sex is that porny bern-chica-bern-bern. Not me. When I think of sex, I hear the theme of The Rockford Files.

Television was a big deal for kids growing up in the ‘70s. One of the biggest days in our household was the arrival of a second black and white TV for my parent’s bedroom. This served two purposes (in order of likelihood): (1) Programming conflicts among household members were resolved and/or my parents didn’t have to be in the same room together; and (2) My parents had a way to drown out sex noises from my brother and me.

When you are young, you learn to like what your parents like because you want to be with them. I quickly learned to like The Rockford Files. But seriously, what was not to like? James Garner was good looking and he drove a cool car. So, one day when I heard the theme, I ran to my parent’s bedroom and opened the unlocked door to see them naked and intertwined. I gasped and my mother let out an Amityville Horror “Get Out” command. My happy Rockford theme was permanently tarnished by that vision.

That experience and feedback from my married friends made me vow I’d never be one of those people that schedules sex. In fact, several weeks ago, I told GC to shoot me if I became one of those people. That was until today. I lunged and squatted in boot camp this morning. GC’s trainer kicked his ass too. Ironically, I sent an email to him and told him there was no way I could bend my legs to have sex tonight right as he sent an email saying the same. We conceded mutual physical defeat and agreed to a sexless date tonight.

Even Jim Rockford needs a night off once in a while, right? But I bet he’d lock the door if kids were around.

My brother and I had bad allergies as kids. As a result, we easily took naps. No complaints. In my adult life, I’ve continued my love of sleep, but now it borders on “you know you are getting old when….”

When GC asked me if I had plans for New Years, I laughed. I mean, why? After you’ve done Times Square, is there any point in getting on the road for a party in LA? I don’t think so. Of course, it’s rare for me to be up that late any way, unless I take a disco nap.

Imagine my excitement when I found a brand new way to enjoy New Years. It’s called East Coast Feed. At 9 p.m. GC, his 7 year-old son, and I blew horns, shot off confetti, and threw colored streamers. Tex and I walked home and I was in bed by 10:30 p.m.

A perfect New Year’s Eve.