About Me

Gypped.

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 14:55:40 -0600

For more than 10 years, in between the newspaper column and this blog and long stretches of inactivity known as the literary wasteland, I have been writing a holiday newsletter.

Only it wasn’t like any holiday newsletter you’re probably familiar with. While I enjoy receiving the traditional fare from other folks -- you know, Timmy won the state swimming contest, Susan made a 30 on the ACT, and Hannah raised $1,000 in the church pray-a-thon to support African orphans -- it’s just not us.

We never, ever do that kind of shit. We don’t win awards, we’re not particularly philanthropic, and achievement isn’t our strong suit. I like to think we’re a nice family, nonetheless. One worth knowing. Hell, one worth keeping up with. Just don’t expect to hear any news beyond the mundane and trivial.

So a couple of years into the holiday newsletter business, I decided to get jiggy wit it. I renamed the newsletter the (our name that begins with an N) Family Lampoon and Year in Review, NFL for short. And I wrote about all the stuff that happens to every family in America but nobody bothers to talk about.

Take last year for example. It was a particularly crappy gift-giving year (from Mr. Mom to me, the only gift exchange that matters). So I wrote a story titled Gift-Giving Hall of Shame and skewered his anniversary and birthday choices (a canister of pepper spray and a tube of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, respectively). In 2006, my story Long-Awaited Family Vacation Careens into Nightmarish Ordeal detailed Mr. Mom’s recreational miscalculations in the Colorado Rockies. In 2005, I chronicled a bizarre (but unrelated) string of pet deaths in our home, including the evening that our adopted mutt Cosmo found himself on the wrong end of Mr. Mom’s 12-gauge after going berserk and failing to acknowledge the true meaning of “never bite the hand that feeds you.”

It’s all there. In 14 years of newsletter writing, I slung every bit of family dirt to be found -- from Kate’s crime spree in first grade to Parker’s propensity for running naked through the house while strumming his junior guitar (the stringed instrument, guys). More than once, my newsletter would prompt phone calls from family and friends with only one question on their minds, “Is it true?” So a few years ago I added a disclaimer that yes, yes, it’s all true -- perhaps slightly exaggerated and undoubtedly a tad satirized, but all true.

Then this year, my faithful readers got this instead of the NFL:

______________

Oklahoma Media Giant Closes Doors

In a move that surprised an already battered Wall Street, media giant Nxxxx Family Lampoon & Year in Review closed its doors today, ending a decade-long run at the top of the family holiday newsletter industry.
“I was like, Dude, this totally sucks,” said Director of Human Resources Parker Nxxxx. “I mean, we got about an hour’s notice that the place was closing. And nobody knows if we’re getting our final paychecks. How am I supposed to buy iTunes and Red Bull with no coin?”
The family-owned newsletter had long been rumored to be in financial trouble, but some employees said the publication simply suffered from lack of interest by the publisher.
“Once she started her blog, that’s all she could think about,” said NFL’s Fashion Editor Kate Nxxxx. “She kept saying ‘the internets are the wave of the future’ and one day, she just called in sick and never came back.”
The blog, www.mayberrymagpie.com, was launched December 20, 2007, in the midst one of Oklahoma’s worst ice storms that forced the staff out of their Pecan Street headquarters for a month following a tragic fire. NFL Director of Safety and Security Dxxx Nxxxx said the resulting six-month remodeling weighed heavily on the publisher and Mayberry Magpie became a much-needed distraction. He also noted that the blog offered an opportunity to publish the family’s news on a daily basis, which severely depleted the holiday newsletter’s editorial pipeline.
“It’s tough for a mainline family newsletter to compete with new media,” Dxxx Nxxxx said. “Anything you want to know about our family is already on-line. Wondering what Parker had for lunch? Read Unhappy Meal. Curious about our sex life? Read You do the math. Haven’t heard about our summer vacation? Read the eight-part series Journey to the Top of the Mountain.”
Kate Nxxxx concurred with her father’s assertion, adding, “As soon as I’m sexually active, I’m certain there will be a scathing editorial on Mayberry Magpie.”
Rumors recently started circulating that the newsletter’s demise is directly related to the hiring of the publisher’s mother as Director of Health and Fitness, but NFL insiders would not comment. Sources close to the publisher said her mother had recently undergone surgery and appeared to have a painkiller dependency, which severely limited her ability to function on the job. But one company employee, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said the newsletter’s reliance on child labor was a more likely contributor to its failure.
“You think?” Parker Nxxx said when asked if the company’s labor practices played a role in the NFL’s closing. “Dude. I’m 13.”

______________

The legions of NFL’s patient and indulgent readers are, so far, outraged. A few called to say “Where the hell is my newsletter?” A few more noted they don’t read blogs and could care less about mine but wanted their newsletter. A few even said “What’s a blog? Do I need a computer?”

One patient soul even wrote me a letter. Remember those -- handwritten missives carried by the US Postal Service for the now-exorbitant price of .42? In it, she noted her disappointment:

Today when I went to the Post Office to collect my mail, I was very excited and there it was. A Christmas card with the Nxxxx’s return address in the corner. I hurried through my errands. When I got home, I got everything put away and sat down to enjoy the annual publication. And like a slap in the face, this was the last edition! I’m too old for Santa and now the NFL is gone.

I gypped her and about 150 others out of their treasured holiday tradition -- feeling good about their family by reading about mine.

I’m sorry, Carolyn. I apologize to you and NFL readers worldwide. As 2009 looms large, I promise to continue our unparalleled record of non-achievement and to chronicle it next December. It’s the least I can do. Really.

The Grinch who stole Christmas.

Fri, 26 Dec 2008 20:51:09 -0600

Remember that Christmas spell I was under a few days ago? That warm feeling of love and family devotion?

Yeah. It’s gone . . .

. . . stolen by a Grinch of the most virulent form. A Grinch of the microscopic sort that invaded our home and our intestines and turned us all the color of a seasick crocodile.

Parker was the first to fall. But like the 13-year-old boy he is, he bounced back in a mere 12 hours. It took longer for the laundry pile to recover than it did the boy. (How is it a 13-year old boy still doesn’t hit the toilet when he vomits?)

Then I fell ill Tuesday afternoon. It took me three days to recover, meaning all of Christmas Eve and more than half of Christmas Day was spent shuffling between the bed and the bathroom. At least I’m house-trained.

Fortunately, so is my mother. She was today’s casualty. I had recovered enough to hit the after-Christmas sale with Kate, but Mr. Mom called me in the middle of my Target spree to say the jig was up on my mother. No surprise Kate came home complaining of a stomach ache.

We’re all laying bets on when Mr. Mom will fall.

Peggy over at Divas Season 2 calls it The Virus That Makes You Glad You Cleaned The Toilet In That Place Nobody Sees Unless They Are Sitting On The Floor Next To It.

Um, I’ve got a news flash for Mr. Mom: That Place Isn’t Clean Anymore.

Sucks to be the last one to get the bug.

A Christmas spell.

Mon, 22 Dec 2008 19:54:16 -0600

Right now I should be making a Christmas grocery list. The great holiday question -- ham or turkey for Christmas dinner? -- looms over me with no resolution in sight. I should be double-checking the pantry. Do we have chicken broth or not? How’s the creme cheese supply?

And instead of resolving these burning issues a mere 12 hours before I’m scheduled to drive 40 miles to the nearest supermarket (emphasis on the super since Mayberry only has a small grocer), I’m sitting on the sofa, drinking a cup of Starbucks, staring at a little boy on a sled.

Saturday as I was surfing the web for sledding images, I came across this photo:

Can I get some fireworks here? Maybe some balloons or a cake? Oh, right. We have no money for those things.

Sat, 20 Dec 2008 14:55:41 -0600

I’ve been painfully aware for about a month now that my one-year blogoversary was coming up. And the notion has been filling me with dread because . . . well, because I’m no Pioneer Woman and who cares anyway. I mean, short of giving away a $500 Home Depot gift certificate (which I can’t do because I’m no Pioneer Woman) in a celebratory contest, who cares, right? Like a lot of anniversaries, this one is really meaningless.

A year ago as I sat in a hotel room with a shiny new MacBook Pro on my lap, displaced by a house fire and depressed about a holiday away from home, I was just farting around. I had no idea I’d start something that would last a year. (After all, I’m known more for the quick burnout than the sustained effort.)

And I sure as hell had no idea that I’d regularly tell you things like what Parker had for lunch, or what Mr. Mom and I discuss during sex, or long-repressed feelings about my dead brother, or the cyst under my tongue, or what I bought traipsing through a junk store, or the neighbor’s fondness for bowling balls, or what the teenagers in Mayberry talk about. And . . . showing you photos of every room in my house as well as a good number of homes in Mayberry? Good Lord, what have I been thinking?

That’s the thing with a personal blog. There’s no filter. All respectable publications have editors, but here at Mayberry Magpie it goes straight from my warped brain to the page. For that, I apologize. I’d hire a good editor if I could, but oh yeah, I don’t have Pioneer Woman’s ad revenue.

So even though I have no ad revenue and miserably amateurish content and only a couple dozen readers, and the only fireworks I can produce are from a stock photo, I still want to say thank you on this, the 365th day in the life of Mayberry Magpie.

Thank you to those folks who show up regularly and to those who drop by once in a while. Thank you to those folks who I’ve known forever and those who I only know through this and other blogs. Thank you for becoming a part of the fabric of Mayberry, which I adore. I adore you, too.

--- Joan-Marie

(P.S. Could somebody cue the orchestra, now?)

The seven-day promise.

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 18:49:54 -0600

You may have heard me say before that my approach to life is feast or famine. I’m either gung-ho or no-go. I think the tenets of Buddhism interest me because “the middle path” is emphasized and I wouldn’t know moderation if it came up and bit me in the butt.

So when I started running 12 weeks ago, I quietly wondered how long it would last “this time.” My pattern is to run four to five days a week for several months, then suddenly, just fail to get out of bed one morning and call it quits, literally overnight.

So a few weeks into my latest regimen, I started giving serious thought to what it is about my psyche that encourages this kind of behavior. And, of course, I knew the answer. It’s part perfectionism and part OCD.

If I’m not going 90-to-nothing, I feel like a schlep. And once I feel like a schlep, it’s easy to say “to hell with it.” You can see how this kind of emotional yo-yo-ing creates an unproductive cycle characterized by periods of intense devotion followed by periods of extreme burnout. This cycle is merely unfortunate when it comes to things like hobbies or intellectual pursuits, but it’s terribly destructive when it comes to fitness. As anyone who’s pursued personal fitness knows, it’s hard work and it takes a lifetime commitment.

Four months ago when I took up running again after nearly a year of periodic false starts and half-hearted efforts, I was dismayed to discover how far my fitness level had slipped and how painful it was to make progress. I’ll never forget that first “run” on September 29. I covered 3.2 miles and it took me 46 minutes. I jogged a few blocks, then had to walk and catch my breath. In all, I probably walked more than half the route and I felt stupendously fat and dispirited. In fact, the first three weeks weren’t much better than the first morning. It took me more than 10 outings to run the entire route without walking and my time improved at a snail’s pace. Currently, I’m running a 10-11 minute pace, so I’m still not setting any speed records -- but I feel strong, I’m not gasping for breath with every step, and I’m learning to enjoy the feel of my muscles working hard. The idea of starting over again makes me want to cry.

So not long ago, I decided to a make a seven-day promise to myself. It’s simple. For one year, 52 weeks, I pledge not to go longer than seven days without getting a run in.

I know on the surface this sounds lame. In fact, Mr. Mom said so. I think he thought I’d pat myself on the back if I ran once a week. But that’s not it at all. My pledge is intended to keep me from giving up, from saying to hell with it, from letting a few days turn into a few months or a year or more.

So my mental conversation goes something like this: I pledge not to go more than seven days without running. Of course, I intend to do much better than that and, in fact, I will strive to run 4-5 times a week. But when life intervenes, and it inevitably will, I won’t throw in the towel. I won’t go more than seven days without picking myself up and hitting the road.

I got my first real test this week. Last week was brutal at work, but I managed to get four runs in. By Saturday, I wanted nothing more than to sleep in both weekend mornings. But I had heard a winter storm was coming in Sunday night and I worried that my routine would be interrupted by inclement weather come Monday morning. I kept telling myself to get out there and run because the storm was coming, but I gave in to my weaker nature and busied myself with holiday preparations and caring for my mother.

And sure enough, the storm hit with a vengeance Monday morning -- sleet followed by snow followed by more sleet and temperatures in the teens. Area schools were closed for three days and my beloved brick streets of Mayberry were encased in ice.

I began mentally ticking off the days . . . 1, 2, 3. When I got to 4, I started to panic. But, finally, yesterday -- day 6 -- the temperature rose above 40 and the last of the ice melted. And this morning, on day 7, I once again rose at 5:30 am and ran four miles. And boy did it feel good. It was a triumph, in fact, for a woman who -- if past behavior is any indicator -- would normally say “Ah, I’ll just give it up for the winter and start back up again in the spring.”

Got a demon to conquer? I highly recommend the 7-day promise.

____________

Answer-to-the-obvious-question Postscript: I know, I know. You’re thinking “Why doesn’t she get a treadmill?” I hate treadmills with a passion and I simply can’t run on them. I also really dislike indoor running because most tracks are .1 mile and you literally run in circles. Run on a treadmill or a track, and you will quickly learn to despise running. There’s simply nothing like the open road. However, had the temperature stayed below freezing, I was prepared to run indoors in order to keep my promise. I’m thanking Mother Nature right now that I didn’t have to. I did, however, have to beg a fellow runner for a ski mask. I hit three Tulsa stores looking to buy one and came up empty-handed. What’s up with that? Do ski masks have such a bad rep that nobody sells them anymore?

The cheesecake factory.

Thu, 18 Dec 2008 21:55:47 -0600

Ever since Kate and I perfected our white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake for Thanksgiving, we’ve been a cheesecake factory. Two nights ago we made it again for my girlfriend’s dinner bags, and last night we attempted to make four dozen mini cheesecakes for my office’s holiday potluck on Friday.

The thing is . . . I don’t really know the formula for mini cheesecakes. You see, I attempted to make them in cupcake papers, but I had no idea if this would work because my recipe calls for a springform pan baked in a water bath. Plus, Kate mixed the batter for me while I was at work and after arriving home and baking the first batch, I discovered she only used one egg instead of the six my doubled recipe called for. After correcting the remaining batter and baking the second batch, they looked as bad as the first -- sort of like a cartoonish souffle gone bad.

Since they are topped with raspberry sauce -- and because I had planned to decorate each with a mini Christmas ornament -- I’m hoping the less-than-perfect aesthetics will be lost in the glory of the first delicious bite. We’ll see. I don’t really have a plan B so I’m counting on my co-workers to have low standards for homemade holiday treats.

But if you’re itching to make a regular sized cheesecake, boy do I have the recipe for you. By popular request (okay, by request from So Not June Cleaver), here’s the best cheesecake recipe ever. It’s adapted from All Recipes.

Raspberry and White Chocolate Cheesecake

2 cups crushed Oreos
1/2 cup butter, melted
3 packages creme cheese, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
3 eggs, beaten
2 cups white chocolate chips
1/2 cup heavy creme
1 jar favorite raspberry jam
1 package fresh raspberries
1 block white chocolate

Crush Oreos and mix with 1/2 cup butter. Press into bottom of springform pan.

Creme together softened creme cheese, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Set aside.

Melt chocolate and heavy creme together using double boiler or microwave. When fully melted and well stirred, add chocolate mixture to creme cheese mixture and beat on high speed until smooth.

Poor half of batter into springform pan over Oreo crust and smooth. Top with thin layer of raspberry jam. (Jam is easier to spread if you heat it in microwave for a few seconds.) Top with rest of batter.

Bake in a water bath in 325 degree oven for one hour. When time is up, turn off oven and let cheesecake remain in oven undisturbed for one more hour. Remove from oven and let cool to room temperature, then chill in refrigerator for several hours. When fully chilled, top with more warm raspberry jam and decorate with fresh raspberries. Chil again, then top with white chocolate curls or shavings. (I like shavings -- it looks like snow. Just be sure to wait until the cheesecake is chilled again or the warm jam will melt the shavings and it won’t be as pretty. I learned this the hard way.)

Cooking notes: Others have told me that baking the cheesecake in a water bath is imperative to keep it from cracking and falling. I’ve always followed this advice and my cheesecakes are perfect. But be warned. I bought a “waterproof” springform pan from Williams Sonoma. I’ve heard some say they wrap their regular springform pan in foil before putting it in the water bath, but I tried this and my foil leaked terribly. Finally, if you use a thin knife and heat it under hot tap water before cutting each slice, you can cut perfect slices with no smearing or crushing of the cheesecake. Don’t be tempted to skip this step as I did the first time or your cheesecake slices will look mangled and sad.

Christmakwanzakah.

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 13:18:47 -0600

I work with a hip young fella named Matt and he does many things very well. In addition to being my Mac guru, he’s also a music connoisseur of the highest order. And he never fails to disappoint with his musical recommendations, especially during the holidays when he shares the funkiest, most obscure, most sublime Christmas music ever recorded by mankind.

Case in point . . . Matt recently gave all his coworkers, including me, a compilation of his favorite holiday tunes called “Merry MiXmas 2008.”

It’s chock full of truly transcendent tunes (love the alliteration, don’t you?). There’s 26 tracks in all, with everything from little known songs like Please Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk this Christmas by the Decemberists and Fifty Kilowatt Tree by the Bobs, to groovy lounge-style carols like Hurry Home for Christmas by Robert Goulet, to All I Want For Christmas sung by John Waite in a slow, let’s-get-drunk-together style. But my very favorite track is one called Christmakwanzakah by the Dan Band.

For anyone who has family, friends, colleagues or neighbors of varied faith traditions, this song will make you smile. After all, we “don’t wanna leave nobody out” and “don’t wanna go and offend anybody.”

So here for your holiday hoots, thanks to Matt the Music Man, is the all soul’s version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, otherwise known as . . .

Christmakwanzakah

This happens every time of year
I don't know what to do
When I'm feelin all cheery
And I wanna give a greeting
Cuz I'm in the holiday mood

And I go scrambling in my brain
Tryin to guess what they celebrate
Then I give it all up and I cover my bases
And this is what I say, well I say

Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah

Like the other day
I was shovelin snow
And I saw my neighbor Akmed
He was stringin buddha beads
On his Christmas tree
With a yamaka on his head
He said "why don't you come by later
For the festival of lights.
Be here at 8, that's when we meditate".
I said "hell why not alright" and I say

Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah
Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah

Don't say I'm waterin religion down
I'm just including people all around
Isn't that what the whole deal’s about
Don't wanna leave nobody out
I don't care what you believe
On Hanukkah or Christmas Eve
Ramaddan and Kwanzaa too
I'm just trying to be nice to you

It's all colliding
What's a guy to do
Don't wanna go and offend anybody
Are they Christian, Muslim, Buddhist or Jew
You can't tell by looking
And it don't feel right to guess
Buyakasha, frickin kumbaya
It's all the same
God Bless
And I say

Merry Krishne
Merry Krishne
Happy Chrismakwanzakah

Some very merry thoughts on Christmas.

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 10:21:39 -0600

I’ve mostly emerged from my pre-Christmas funk of late, though I have to say it hasn’t been easy. My mom and I spent all day Sunday in an emergency room 40 miles away working through her pain issues. Turns out she has degenerative disc disease, and the bone-on-bone rubbing in her lower back isn’t making her recovery from abdominal surgery any easier or lessened her need for pain pills.

I recently got an email from a colleague who wrote: Remember, it is an honor to help those you love. You are teaching your children a great lesson in values. Somehow her gentle reminder snapped me back to life and in the span of 48 hours, my Christmas spirit has flourished.

Tonight, I delivered the goodie bags pictured above to a handful of friends. Each monogrammed tote bag contained dinner for two prepared last night by our household. Everyone pitched in, including my mother, who chopped, seeded and peeled the peppers. Parker was the only one without a specific task, though he’s always good for crowding the kitchen and cracking wise. In fact, when I later showed Mr. Mom the menu cards I made for each bag, he quipped “You left off BS by Parker.”


Magpie Dinner Menu
Joan-Marie’s Roasted Red Pepper and Tomato Bisque
Mr. Mom’s Whole Wheat Bread
Kate’s Raspberry and White Chocolate Cheesecake
Rudolph’s California Red Wine


The red pepper/tomato bisque is a fabulous recipe that I adapted from All Recipes. I’m printing my version at the bottom of the page in case you want to give it a try this winter. It’s smooth and comforting with just a touch of cayenne. Is there anything more wonderful than a bowl of hot soup on a cold night?

Speaking of wonderful, I also finished my homemade Christmas cards. No, I’m not bragging . . . I’m referring to this year’s theme. My very favorite movie of all time is It’s a Wonderful Life and I used it as my creative launch pad for this year’s holiday mailing. Inspired by my friend Maridel, a true collage goddess, I shunned the store-bought cards purchased the day after Christmas last year in favor of this handmade one.

Some very un-merry thoughts on Christmas.

Tue, 9 Dec 2008 19:42:33 -0600

In case you’re wondering where I’ve been lately, I don’t know what to say except I’m lost. Lost in a Holy-crap-it’s Christmas-already-and-have-I-mentioned-my-mother-is-living-with-me-now-? frenzy.

To those who have commented and emailed with good wishes for my mother . . . thank you. She is recovering, but geeez Louise I never knew how slow and painful it could be. And, um, I forgot that when I’m around my mother for more than five minutes at a time we revert to old patterns of communicating, where old patterns equals my mother asking me too many questions and me sighing loudly and rolling my eyes. It’s like we’re stuck in 1978, only she’s 79 and I’m 46 and instead of arguing about how late I stayed out, we’re arguing about how many pain pills and laxatives she takes. Nice, huh?

And, about that Christmas thing? Well, I just have no interest this year. I realize that is fairly inconvenient for all involved since I’m the chief holiday planner in my home, but I’m having trouble mustering much *cheer* this year. I just keep thinking of all the undone items on my typical holiday to-do list, and I’d rather skip it.

In an effort to jump-start my mood today, I sent Mr. Mom an email with Christmas gift suggestions. For a couple of weeks, I have been talking non-stop about a particular dream gift. A gift that makes gals like me weak in the knees. Take a look:

The owl by the door.

Wed, 3 Dec 2008 09:59:32 -0600

I once wrote a story called The Owl in the Elm about my great love for my owl friend who lives near our home. Ever since I moved back to Mayberry and became acquainted with my feathered neighbor, I have adored owls.

So look what showed up at my house this morning . . . a beautiful white ceramic owl. Isn’t he the cutest, perkiest little friend ever? I stationed him right by the front door -- a friendly sentry, tailor- made to corral the umbrellas I can never seem to lay my hands on.

The occasion for the arrival of this surprise was my birthday, much as I hate to admit it. I’m now officially middle-aged, though I ran five miles this morning so I’m doing my best to stem the tide of gravity and time.

The other thing I hate to admit is that I’m notoriously absent-minded about birthdays. I have --- more times than I care to count -- forgotten or failed to properly recognize the birthdays of those around me. A couple of years ago, Mr. Mom called me at work to remind me it was Parker’s birthday. A few weeks ago, my sister called to make sure I remembered my mother’s. (I hadn’t, despite the fact that I share a wedding anniversary with her birthday.) I have a J friend who tries her best to give me a heads up on the other J’s birthdays. My crack administrative assistant does her best to make sure I sign cards and show up for the birthday cake at office observances, and she even patiently ignores me when I roll my eyes after each reminder. In other words, when it comes to birthdays and special occasions, it takes a village to raise me.

Given my dismal record, the outpouring of birthday greetings from the variety of folks who populate my life always make me wince. I got more than a few emails, cards and gifts today, including a CD of a favorite musical group, a homemade coconut creme pie, homemade cookies, and a giant musical card (Chicken Dance anyone?) from a group of co-workers. I even got an email greeting from a co-worker who was also born on Dec. 3. (Um, yeah. I had no idea it was her birthday, too.) As a fellow Sagittarian, she shared this description of our temperament:

Sagittarius is a fire sign and is ruled by the expansive planet Jupiter. Persons born under the sign of the Centaur-Archer are said to be optimistic, enthusiastic, and seekers of knowledge. They insist upon their freedom, and can be outspoken and prone to exaggeration. Yet they can also be very delicate, diplomatic and deep. Sagittarians are idealists who want everything to be wonderful. They are also extremists who hate half measures. For them, it's either gung ho or no go.

Me, outspoken? Prone to exaggeration? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.

Still, I had one of the best birthdays I’ve had in a very long time. Maybe it was the artfully arranged breakfast Mr. Mom prepared for me while I ran in the dark this morning. Maybe it was the really big hug Parker gave me when he got home from church this evening. Maybe it was the “happy birthday” text Kate sent me at lunch. Maybe it was the warm pie delivered to my door within moments of finishing dinner.

Or, maybe it was knowing that despite my fire and bluster and hyperbole and feast-or-famine approach to life, more than a few kind souls wish me well along the crooked path we call life, including today’s stop at mile marker 46.