I know, I know. Some of you think the birthday gal, fine, if you insist, former birthday gal, mixed up important historical holidays, and adorned my celebratory cake, purchased by longtime hubby, even though I said, "no cake," with Hanukkah candles. How. Dare. You. Do you think at 61 I've gone off ye ole deep end? I'm waiting till at least 62 for that. Plus it's right there in the Ten Commandments: "Thou shalt not sub in Hanukkah candles for non-Hanukkah miracles. That's what God calls a no-no." The real miracle here is that I only ate one slice of cake last night. One. That's all. Oh, and some of the chocolate shavings on top, but those don't count.
The candles are brought to you, not by Manischewitz, but Rainbow Moments, and brought to me, via the US Postal Service, by the NYC gal I call...
... Bubbles. And she calls me Bubbles, too, and neither one of us knows why. All we do know: Two Bubbles are better than one. Remember that. Anyway, every b'day, this adorable human (aka Debbi Fuhrman), tops herself with a joyous gift in my honor. This year, she gave me the magical candles...
... and these marvelous glasses that tell the world, "Hey, it's my b'day, bitches. My birthday, not yours. Step aside and let me get some attention for a change." So today, I plan to keep milking my birth in the backseat of Daddy's Oldsmobile (note to self: great start for a country song!) and you can't stop me, unless you have some magical powers I don't know about.
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