It’s my birthday this week.

This is not normally cause for a big celebration, and this year it is less than usual. Still, unlike my husband, Peter, I actually do celebrate my birthday. I don’t expect anyone else to celebrate -- although it’s nice to know my parents remember I was born and still seem to think it was a good thing.

But I’m puzzled by reports of people my age who have huge celebrations, or pout if they don’t get a party. My grandmother had a big party on her 100th birthday, and I think that’s an appropriate time for a “blow-out” (as she called it). Otherwise, I think the only person who has any reason to celebrate my birthday is me. It’s good to have been given another year.

This year, Peter asked, as he always does, what I wanted on my birthday. The choices were more limited than in the past, but that really didn’t matter. It’s fun to receive one unusual thing that makes me happy. One year, I asked Peter for a new toilet seat. Peter saw nothing wrong with the existing one (he wouldn’t!) but cheerfully replaced it on my birthday.

“Just don’t go telling everyone I got you a toilet seat for your birthday!” he said.

But now I have.

This year, my plans are less grandiose. I was thinking about cheese, specifically, a big pot of melted cheese. I know, the weather has been warm, but the idea of fresh fruit dunked in a vat of nice cheese sounded irresistible.

“Fondue,” I told Peter. “I’d like fondue for my birthday.”

“Hot oil or cheese?”

“Cheese -- good cheese!”

We ordered long forks and are all set. Peter is making cheese fondue.

I celebrate my birthday for the same reason I journal -- to keep track of where I am in life. Peter says it would be better just to forget about that, especially as we get older, but I disagree. I like to know where I am and where I’ve been. I think that might be more important this year than ever.

I probably get this from my mom. She’s kept a journal every day of her life since she was in college. She claims it is a profoundly dull document. She famously described it as “an uninterrupted record of every dental appointment I’ve ever had.”

But I know this is not strictly true because she does look things up to see what she was doing a year ago or five years ago on that date. She tells me, from time to time, about something she wrote a few years back.

“Oh! We were worried about you,” she’ll tell me. I had no idea my parents were worried, but her journal knew.

My daily journal rarely records anything as exciting as my dental appointments. Usually, I am just trying to figure stuff out, seeing where I am, where I’m going, noting what I’ve done and what I’d still like to do -- both in the near term and before I run out of time for good. Journaling reminds me of how much I have to be grateful for. Birthdays do the same thing.

As an afterthought, I ordered a dozen cupcakes. I didn’t figure a cake made much sense since there was no one to share it with, but I thought it might be fun to distribute cupcakes to friends and neighbors. I’m getting one dozen red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting. I’m having mine with a scoop of peppermint ice cream.

If that isn’t a blow-out, I don’t know what is.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’ve worn out a pair of slippers.

To be fair, I wear slippers quite a bit under normal circumstances, but over the past four months my slipper use has exceeded previous records. I was reading the news one morning (I imagine you know what that’s like). The takeaway for me was that I was going to be wearing slippers for a while. I looked down at my slippers and gave in to the inevitable. I ordered new slippers.

I’ve actually forgotten what shoes I own. I looked in my closet and it seemed kind of quaint. I had different shoes for different outfits! I had shoes with heels! I had boots of several varieties -- even a pair of red boots! They are now stacked up neatly in my closet. I haven’t worn anything on my feet but hiking boots and slippers in months.

My husband, Peter, and I have Alexa, the Amazon device that amuses us and annoys us in equal measure. I like her because I can ask questions when I’m baking. “Alexa! How many tablespoons in one-third cup?” “Alexa! When does the sun set tonight?” I can ask questions and play music with sticky hands and this seems to me one of the great advances in civilization made in the last century.

Peter is less sure. He quarrels with Alexa. He asks things in a way she cannot answer and when she says, “I’m not sure I understand your question,” Peter takes it personally.

“She’s a machine,” I remind Peter.

“She’s not an intelligent machine!” Peter replies.

Yesterday, Alexa was flashing away like crazy. This, I have learned, means she has something to say.

“Alexa! Do you have a notification?”

“I have one notification.” I waited with bated breath. (There really isn’t a lot going on at our house right now.)

“The notification is for Carrie: Your slipper has been delivered.”

“Oh my gosh! My slipper has been delivered!” I felt like Cinderella. I immediately went out and fetched the box from the stoop. I discovered that Alexa spoke the truth. In fact, it was even better than she said. Two slippers had been delivered -- one for each foot!

Since March, the only clothing I have purchased is two pairs of stretchy pants and a nightgown. I’ve been living in stretchy pants. New slippers were a very big deal.

I am amazed by how little I have thought about clothes over the past one-third of a year. I miss wearing shoes but now, glancing into my closet, I wonder how many of them I’ll want to wear again once the opportunity presents itself. It seems to me a lot has changed in four months, and a lot of these changes have happened inside of me.

I have a much greater appreciation for all the things I miss. I miss sharing experiences and having people I can laugh with. I miss chatting with my 90-year-old gal pal in church. I miss sitting with a group of strangers in a theater when the lights dim. I’d be happy to wear my stretchy pants and new slippers everywhere if I could get together with friends for an evening of fun.

I modeled my new slippers for Peter. He pretended to be impressed. (A marriage relies on a little good-natured acting from time to time.) I’m going to keep all my shoes, although I think I might have to dust them pretty soon. I’m holding out hope that, someday, I might have the occasion to wear a pair of red boots -- probably with a pair of stretchy pants.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

My husband, Peter, and I miss having a dog. I see a lot of dogs on the trail during my daily hike, and so Peter (who is always full of good ideas -- usually about things I should do) suggested I carry dog treats.

Dog treats have changed my life.

When I see a dog approaching me on the trail, I say, “Can I give your dog a treat?” Now and then someone will say, “No, she doesn’t need one.” These dogs look to me like they might have a different opinion.

But most dog owners are delighted to let their dog have a treat. “Are you supposed to do something?” I ask the dog, and the owner will say, “Sit!” or “Shake!” and the dog will do a trick. Sometimes the dog offers a paw or sits before she is asked to. “Yeah, I’m supposed to do a trick. I know the drill.”

There are two border collies who barked at me every day as I walked by. I asked if I could give them a treat. No more barking. Now I could go rob their house if I wanted to -- as long as I brought treats.

Occasionally, an owner will tell me their dog is fussy and might not like the treat. This is usually not the case. (Peter ordered top-notch treats, and dogs love them.) But there is always an exception.

“Can I give your dog a treat?” I asked a family.

“He doesn’t like dog food,” the father answered.

“This is a special dog treat,” I assured him.

“He doesn’t like dog treats, but you can give it a try!”

The dog ran over, put the treat in his mouth, spat it out, and walked away.

“He’s very particular,” his owner said. “He likes chicken livers. But they are so smelly!”

“Chicken livers!” I thought. “I’m not carrying chicken livers!”

Another man with two dogs told me that the larger one wouldn’t want a treat but the small one, Taco, would. I offered Taco a treat. Taco sniffed it for several moments and declined. The big dog came over and ate it in one gulp.

“I believe your dogs are trying to make a liar out of you,” I told the man. He agreed.

Then I met Wallace. Wallace is a sweet old dog who has to take thyroid medication every day. He was going to be euthanized until his owner, Mike, adopted him. “His medicine costs more than mine!” Mike told me. “But Wallace makes sure I get a walk every day.” I gave Wallace a treat. He let it drop to the ground and looked at me, expectantly.

“Oh. He always gets two treats -- of different kinds -- then he chooses between the two,” Mike explained.

“I’m sorry, Wallace, I only have one kind of treat!”

Wallace looked at me like he didn’t think I was doing a very good job of this treat distribution business, but he ate it anyway.

I have met rescue dogs who are so shy I have to give the treat to their owner before they will eat it. I have met dogs who refuse to do tricks and say, “Just give me the darned treat and cut out the nonsense, would you?” I love them all.

Now dogs recognize me and tug on their leashes when they see me. I still miss having a dog but now, by the time I get home, my little treat bag is empty and I am filled with dog stories.

“Dog treats!” Peter says. “Wasn’t that the best idea ever?”

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION