October, wasted.

This is my "nobody made me a cake" face.

October had 31 days, which means FarmWife had 31 opportunities to celebrate my 17th birthday. Here's my reasoning: my bill of sale states "black mule born Oct. '94." (I'm not black, but I'll let that slide). This means every October day is as much my birthday as then next, and no October day has been proven to be NOT my birthday.

FarmWife wished me happy birthday a couple of times but she never—and I mean NEVER—baked me a dessert, nor planned a surprise party. There was no carrot cake.

On a loosely related subject, FarmWife overlooked today's numerological significance—she should have gone to 7-11 for 11 bottles of champagne this morning at 11:11 am on 11/11/11, but she didn't. She stayed home and unthinkingly baked muffins instead. Twelve of them.

FarmWife doesn't mean to be cruel. She says "it's for your health," when I ask about the cake, and "you are frightened of surprises," when I ask about the party.

Just because she's right doesn't mean I have to like it.

Ears,
Fenway Bartholomule