Today is mine. According to the Times-Picayune, I share the date with Willie Mays, Tony Blair and George Clooney. So far I've had a rocky start. Spilled coffee in my purse, snagged my white sweater with my bracelet, and the air conditioner in my car is dead. Andrew told me on the way to school that he forgot to tell me yesterday that his math teacher warned him to show up today with his hair cut or he gets a PH (penalty hall). I told him to push it over to the side. The rest of the day will be fine, I hope. I heard a Lou Harrison cello concerto on the way to the office, took the long way there so I wouldn't miss a note, and how beautiful was that? Very. There's a giant carrot cake in the fridge at work, the day's warm and bright, a good day to walk to the river with Malcolm and watch the tankers make the big turn. I'm grateful for so many mish-mashed, multi-colored years; 17,155 days, no two the same. (I'm glad we don't count our life in days. Or weeks. That's 2,450 weeks. Whoa, Nelly.) (You're gonna figure it out, aren't you?) Tonight I'll have dinner with M and A at the restaurant down the street and enjoy a small fuss.