So. I’m officially 36 years old. So far it seems a lot like 35, I’ll be honest. On the day itself (Thursday), Mr. Squab and I went out on a FABULOUS date. First we went to Pierre’s Bistro in southwest Minneapolis. OMFG, do they ever make some good food. Like, lean your head against the wall and take a moment to recover kind of good. We had artichokes au gratin to start, all buttery and cheesy and garlicky over crusty bread. Then I had a fillet of salmon encrusted with kalamata olives, served over a bed of wilted spinach with tomato compote. Christ, my heart is beating faster just THINKING about it. Then we finished with the triple cremes brulees sampler: vanilla, chocolate, and espresso creme brulee. Oh, with wine and coffee at the appropriate intervals. I mean, I’m sure it cost about what we spend on a week’s groceries and was probably a couple of days’ worth of calories and fat, but FUCK IT. It was my birthday, and lord, it was worth it.

Then we went to the movie theatre and saw The Bourne Ultimatum, which was the most satisfying movie I’ve seen all summer. What could be better after an orgasmic meal than watching Matt Damon run his ass off all over Europe and NYC? Nothing, that’s what. Mighty good times.

So a lovely birthday, followed by an equally lovely family celebration on Saturday, at which I got, among other presents, the first DVD of Sesame Street Old School, and the second season of The Muppet Show. For me. The Hatchling can watch them, too, I guess, if she’s good. Because what’s the point of entering the second half of your fourth decade if you can’t relive the joyous TV experiences of your first?

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