Husband and the boys took me for a little birthday dinner tonight: it was family dinner, which means we went somewhere that serves chicken pressed into shapes no self-respecting chicken would acknowledge.  Tomorrow night, friends have offered to babysit the boys so that Husband and I can have grownup dinner. I will have to restrain myself from automatically telling the waiter to bring ketchup to the table.

When we walked out of the restaurant, here’s what we saw:

No, they hadn’t gotten me a black Escalade for my birthday.

Do you see what’s gleaming on that black surface?


First time it rained in Abu Dhabi since we’ve been here (okay, it rained once but we were in India when it happened, so as far as I’m concerned that doesn’t count).

It rained on my birthday. Not quite even enough rain to soak the ground, but enough to make the sidewalks a little slick. Enough to count as rain and not just excessive humidity (that happens in August).  Funny how context changes everything, right? I mean, it’s January. I’m used to having blizzards on my birthday, frigid temperatures, hail. A little warm rain? Eh, no big deal.

Okay, so we could read this as: “wow, you’re inching ever closer to fifty and as if to commiserate, it rained.” Or we could say “gosh, so auspicious that on the day of your birth, the weather actually decided to act like, you know, weather.”

Glass half-empty, glass half-full?

Or, of course, the universe is paying no attention to me at all and it’s just…rain.

Nah. How could it not be about me?