Life: Idiotropic

It's just a number and though I don't really "like" the number, I'm not terribly torn up about it. I think 34 was worse. Partially because with every birthday comes that introspective personal evaluation that I almost without exception fail miserably. This year, either because I'm too busy with the move, or really just don't care at the moment, I skipped that whole self-evaluation entirely figuring, eh, it was a good year and this next one will be even better. Why stress.

May be I'm finally growing up.

Life is good. I have 4 girls, a guy, and amazing friends. I'm finally writing which is both strange and somewhat exciting. And... well, I'm moving to Spain. What more could a girl ask for.

A cake? Yep. Got that too. Alice came through with her famous, out of this world, best ever carrot cake, candles, singing, and all. So a few zillion calories later, I'm a little fluffier, but completely content to be... gulp... 35.

(The ice cream wasn't mine. I saw it prepared as I saw having coffee and gooseberry cake this morning with Kirk at Cafe Schleypen. It's Spaghetti Eis - a very traditional ice cream dessert here in Germany - vanilla ice cream extruded into long spaghetti-like strands and then covered with strawberries and strawberry sauce to look like spaghetti.)