Saturday, September 09, 2006

That's Half of a Century for You, My Dear

Thirty-five years ago today my best friend and soul mate celebrated her fifteenth birthday. I was at the party. We weren't "officially" a couple yet, but as far as I was concerned there was nobody else. I still remember (amazing, considering I am in the throes of CRS -- Can't Remember Stuff) the gift I gave her that day--a pink stuffed animal. I even remember the little four line poem I included in the card:

Violets are red
Roses are blue
If you believe that
Here's a pink donkey for you

I am a really thoughtful gift-giver.

For her 50th I wanted to break tradition and give her something really nice and special for her birthday. I began thinking about it in earnest back last spring after I quit pouting about the fact that she had completely ignored my 50th birthday in January (never mind the fact that after my 40th I had given her a direct order to never mention my birthday again). One morning the liquid caffeine delivery system was working more effectively than usual and multiple creative synapses fired in the shriveled grey matter of my brain housing group long enough for a neat idea to form and lodge prominently enough to not succumb to CRS ten minutes later. For her 50th birthday I would send my beautiful bride and her ugly twin sister on a weeklong trip to, get this, a Dude Ranch. Now, I gotta believe that all of you out there who know Miss Brenda and her ugly twin sister are smiling at the thought of the two of them and a cattle stampede.

Poor cattle.

The idea was to give them something that as twins they craved, but had not really had in 30 years--time together as "sissies." Seems every time we get together as a family, the girls complain that they don't get to spend time with each other, what with all the cooking, cleaning, and child/spouse rearing responsibilities. So, I told them a couple of months ago that a trip to a dude ranch just for the two of them was going to be my 50th birthday present to them. Miss Brenda's ugly twin sister got really excited until she realized I had said DUDE, not NUDE ranch.

They left last Sunday for the badlands of north Arkansas (the ranch's brochure said something like "Wild West Adventure Southern Style") and except for one phone call and a cryptic e-mail about bucking horses and broken arms (not any of theirs) the family has heard nothing from them. Miss Brenda will be home (where she belongs--traveling is MY job) tomorrow evening.

Good thing--the laundry hamper is overflowing and it's hard to find the sink with all the dirty dishes in the way.
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