Wade came home last night with a variety of Birthday-Related Loot, including a whole bag of treats from Williams Sonoma (the grocery of the future! if in the future we’re all buying really really expensive pasta with really delicious sauce–seriously, you all, the SAUUUUUUCE! my god so delicious). But! Best of all! Margarita mix!

And tequila!

And a Norah Jones cd!

And did I mention that he brought home margarita fixings? Yes!

God I love that man.

We had the pasta tonight and dammit Williams Sonoma makes some good noodles. I think I am forever spoiled for basic grocery pasta now, which apparently means I will need to get another job, because I am also never coloring my hair myself again. Ever.

Never.

So yes, I colored my own hair the other night; I went with the Garnier color because if it’s good enough for Sarah Jessica Parker, it’s good enough for me. Except that she has a professional hovering over her making sure it looks JUST RIGHT and I had only the package directions and Jen on the IM cheering me on. What I really needed was Jen in my bathroom to help me out, or even better, to color my hair for me. Or maybe to STOP ME before I made a HUGE MISTAKE. But I had none of that, and so I forged ahead like a brave little camper. With lots of gray hair.

Because I had no other choice (Jen, MOVE TO OKLAHOMA ALREADY!) I did it myself and it’s the wrong color (not blonde! not red! just kind of orangy!) and now my head looks GIGANTIC and I will be wearing a hat most of the time for the next few weeks. The upside, of course, is that I get a haircut every four or five weeks and Estrella the Uberstylist pretty much takes EVERYTHING off, so I should be back to myself soon. In the meantime, I look like . . . I don’t even know what. Like someone who shouldn’t be coloring her own hair.

I have decided that now that I’m looking down the barrel of 40 it’s time I start acting like an adult, which probably means getting a manicure every so often and NOT COLORING MY OWN HAIR. I thought fleetingly about swearing less, but that seems really futile, and if you saw my hair, you would be swearing too.

Dammit. See what I mean?

I did not get to actually HAVE a margarita last night, sadly, because we spent TWO HOURS sitting on some very uncomfortable metal bleachers listening to every kid in Henry’s school sing Broadway show tunes while Charlie clapped wildly and said “IS IT OVER YET?” after every song. And while it was truly delightful, particularly the part where Henry (who came to sit with us while he waited to sing Oklahoma! at the very VERY end) turned to me and said, out of nowhere, “I journaled about it being your birthday today,” it was also painfully long. And then we came home and tied the hepped-up children to their beds and said FOR GOD’S SAKE GO TO SLEEEEEEEP! and sprawled out on the sofa.

Inevitably, we got suckered into a documentary about Enron on PBS and ended up staying awake LONG past bedtime. Because that’s how we roll. If you get a chance to see the documentary, do it. Amazing. But have a margarita first; you’ll thank me. And for the love of all that is holy, do not EVER let me color my own hair.

In conclusion, it was a good birthday. (Ha ha, worst ending ever! To go with my hair!)