So. Yesterday. We dropped the kids off at a friend’s house (with lunch and changes of clothes and bathing suits and towels! Not packed by me!) and then drove aimlessly around town, looping around and changing lanes and generally trying to keep me in the dark about where we were going until we made a u-turn and—ta-daaa!—we were at the chiropractor. “Hooray! An adjustment!” I said (okay, really I said, “I am totally wearing the wrong outfit to get an adjustment,” but I meant the hooray thing).

But no! Dane had scheduled a massage for me, at the chiropractor’s office (Oooooh, massage! Nice. I could VERY much use a massage!). But! No again! When we walked in, the receptionist said she would call and see where the masseuse was (always a good sign!). After a terse phone conversation in Spanish involving the words ‘ahora’ and ‘cumpleanos,’ she told us that the masseuse had had an emergency and we’d have to reschedule.

So we went and picked up lunch instead, to eat in our very quiet house. Except we found that our very quiet house was full of very quiet stuff all over the floor. And would best be defined not so much as a ‘house’ but rather as a ‘pit of smothering heat.’ The stuff all over the floor led to an incident involving me accidentally sending a toy skidding across the kitchen and into a patch of sticky nastygoo, which led to Dane deciding to mop the floor while the kids were out (do we know how to have fun, or what?). And then we fled the scorching, messy hovel we call home.

We went to a little chocolate shop where—unbeknownst to me—they have begun serving chocolate desserts in addition to the tiny expensive delicious truffles. They also have indoor, air conditioned seating. We thought we might decide to live there forever. And ever. And eat nothing but chocolate. Forever.

But, responsible parents that we are, we left. We went shopping at little boutique shops filled with Stuff You Must Not Knock Over (Owen! Abigail! That means you!) and then picked up our kids.

When we got back to the oven home, I had a call from the masseuse-less office telling me they had fired the woman. I mostly said, “But I—I didn’t—No, I—It’s just—I mean—” in between the many apologies and the “No, not because of you. Not because of this. Well, yes, because of this, but not ONLY this…”

And later, when my mother, who lives nearby and uses the same chiropractor, called to schedule an appointment for herself, they apologized to HER for several minutes, even though she had NO IDEA what they were talking about. I think she forgave them.

And that was my birthday! Well, most of it. All the stuff that’s fit to print, anyhow! (Don’t you love how I lead you to imagine that the unfit to print things were risqué, when actually they were dull, sweltering, and involved kids refusing to fall asleep? No extra charge for that. That’s just the kind of minimal entertainment I offer around here.)