Boy oh boy, do I ever feel like Dagwood Bumstead or Doug Heffernan or Fred Flintstone. And not because I prepared an enormous multi-decker sandwich from whatever I found in the icebox, engaged in buffoonery while on my delivery route, or took my wife for granite, respectively. But because, like these and many other fictional husbands, and, I’m sure many real live ones, I almost forgot to remember my own anniversary: six years of … this! This … this … this … blog or whatever it is.
Because I am now comfortably settled into the cuddliest and cutest part of my dementia (the part that comes between forgetting what I came into a room for and peeing in my pants on purpose), my ever vigilant and always adorable longtime reader/friend Elena from Madrid saw fit to remind me two days ago. So even though I thanked her privately, I now thank her publicly. Gracias, chica! Y besos! And the rest of you, who neglected to remind me, get to kick yourselves in your collective ass for not being publicly recognized and thanked.
To make up for your neglect, and to get back into my good graces, I would like you to wax rhapsodic about your experience here within my virtual walls and tell me how pretty I am and how, really, you’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in black yoga pants and a black V-neck T-shirt (my party outfit du jour).
I love you all.