I'm another year older today, and apparently my standards for what defines a "good birthday" have changed.
I didn't have to change a poopy diaper, my newspaper wasn't stolen, I caught the correct bus to daycare and another bus to work that arrived on time, I got home by 7, Elliot went to sleep after only one reading of "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," we got Piccolo pizza (and I got to pick the best pieces, even if they weren't contiguous), I had cake, ice cream and my signature jalapeno martini. Life is good.
I've also managed to pass Mozart in the being-alive-longer competition. I haven't really written a Requiem or Symphony No. 41 in the past year, but I have managed to produce an heir .
I don't know what died-young composer I should move on to now. Maybe Mussorgsky (pictured)?
Apparently he had too many jalapeno martinis. I feel like I can take him.