Birthday weekends are the best

Well, as much as my Virgo-ness drives me insane at times, when September 17th rolls around, it always makes me feel warm and fuzzy and special inside. I've always loved the number 17, and I wonder if it's just because it's my birthday. If I had been born on the 1st, perhaps that would be one of my favorite numbers. I doubt it. One is just a hard number to love. It's not pretty and it's lonely. I wonder these things. Anyway, 17 it is. If I were an NFL quarterback, I would have it on my jersey.

The Colts are playing the Texans on Sunday, so I'll get to watch a Colts win for sure! The Cowboys...who knows. They play the Redskins and it will all depend upon Drew Bledsoe's ability to quit laying interception-laced eggs. Romo! Romo! Romo! That's what I want for my birthday Mr. Parcells. The future is now.

I'm going to eat a lot of cheese on Sunday. I would rather have birthday cheese than a birthday cake. A block of cheese is harder to put candles in (not to mention it would likely melt, especially with the relative bonfire someone my age would require), but it's extremely tastey and the calories are less empty. What kind of cheese? I have a hard time turning down cheddar, but colby jack is nice too. Perhaps we'll go to Central Market and get some fresh mozzarella and put it on garlic Triscuits with sundried tomatoes and fresh basil. And a candle!

I'm just happy I've lived this long. Must be the cheese.