Let Me Eat Cake

Turns out, I'm the best candidate for a surprise party. I'm so clueless, so completely oblivious to all the obvious signs -- a last-minute location change, a casual request to come early for lunch, described as "leftovers from a meeting," and how about my students' cars in the driveway -- that when I walked in the door and they yelled "Surprise!" I jumped back and screamed, "OH MY GOD!" Luring me into this surprise trap was a cakewalk (see what I did there?). I had no idea. I just went with it, easygoing gal that I'm usually not, but I'm 60 now, so why not, I ask you. Why. Not. If not now, when?

 

Here's the surprise birthday cake from Porto's. The gal in the middle? That's me, the self-anointed volunteer rabbi of my own writerly congregation. The other symbols represent wonderful stories "The Wannabe Writers," as they call themselves (trust me, they're already writers), have delved into over the past few months: a pickle ball paddle, a switchblade, a Cuban tango dancer, a U.S. Marine Corps emblem and a stack of library books. 

They even gave me gifts, including a stuffed fish (don't ask), a sign that says "Maybe Swearing Will Help" -- they know me so well -- and this, the 1st Annual Laughing At Life Award, a very prestigious trophy handed out only once every 60 years. What a great way to spend my 60th, with nice people I adore and can't wait to see every week. I'm so honored, I could plotz. Meanwhile, stop by the palatial estate if you're in the neighborhood. I have not one, but two half-eaten delicious cakes that need to be fully consumed.