It's that time of year again...when people plunk down $75 bucks to eat with their hands and drink rose wine. yay. The restaurant will be grilling leeks outside on a grill and serving them up with romesco sauce (pronounced row-mess-cue, go figure, those crazy Basque). Actually, the wine is quite good, a rose called Muga, which is dry with just enough fruit and acidity to stand up to the all-lamb menu being served. I will be working said festivities, lucky me!

But first I will weekend in the Hamptons, take advantage of as much time there as I can because the parentals have rented it out for the summer. I cannot begrudge them this since it is income for them and they really need it. You see, my father, turning 79 this year, just didn't bargain on living so damned long. He prepared financially till about 65-68, figuring my mother would live way past him to 90 or so, like her mother before her. Ah, life, full of cruel little jokes.

My own mortality is not in question though I feel rather raw about my upcoming birthday...I am younger than I feel and feel older than I thought I would. I don't buy into the whole numbers game, usually. This time I am being eaten alive by what-the-hell-have-I-been-doing-for-the-last-twenty-years and other such maddening self-abusive missives. Of course, I have a CV full of what I have been doing and a few journals filled with off-the-record happenings. No regrets, no whipping post, but now, now I want more more more. yea, yea yea.

What do I want for my birthday, you might ask? I want my horoscopes to come true. In the material sense, I'd like an unexpected inheritance of major proportions. In a reality sense, I'd love somepicture books of Old New York City, 19th and 20th century stuff. A friend is reading a fabulous history of NYC as well and that would be cool too.

I still want to learn to knit goddammit...so perhaps some knitting lessons. I figure if I knit, eventually I will stop picking my cuticles. TMI, I know, but so be it.

Going to the Harvard Club for dinner this evening. I feel very Lorelai(sp?) Gilmore going to her parents for Friday night supper. It is a gathering in honor of my father and his work in the psychoanalytic profession. Another one. He has been honored about 4 times this year. I think he isn't the only one that can't believe he is still kicking. I will keep you posted on how this $150 a head event goes; should be interesting re: people at least...although I suspect the rubber chicken dinner is alive and well in midtown.

Now, what on earth shall I wear?!