Yesterday morning Chris woke up and announced that he was officially an old man. "GET OFF MY LAWN" he shouted.
It was his birthday. He's a geezer and will probably start ending all his sentences with "ya hoodlums!"
I had a party for him, but didn't bother cleaning the house, putting ping pong balls in my medicine cabinet or beefing up my homeowner's insurance. I rounded up several of his friends and we had one of those themed birthday parties I've been complaining about - at F1 Boston.
It was very very easy getting his friends to come. Not that Chris has no friends and we generally have to hire extras, but it's tricky getting people together at this time of year. Okay so last year was completely my fault because I forgot to call people. Still.
This year I got the feeling that his friends might rather miss Christmas than a trip to F1. Because whatever their drivers licenses say, they're all about 15 years old. At F1 they can drive go-karts absurdly fast. They get to wear jumpsuits that make them look like spiderman. They wear helmets and head socks. I think they were all just there for the head socks.
I was all prepared to stand by and be the team photographer while the men-folk raced, but then I thought about how stunning I would look in a jump suit.
It was important that Liz and I raced, because someone had to be heard laughing all the way across the track (Liz) and someone had to notice the lovely mural at the far end of the track (me). I am sure that none of the men-folk noticed the mural as they were careening past me. I am also pretty sure that none of them have stomachaches from laughing so hard they couldn't hold onto the wheel. Or sore arms from the aforementioned hanging onto the wheel.
I am pretty sure I heard Chris yelling, "slow down you freakin' maniacs!"
Most of our group fell all over themselves getting signed up for another race (Steve: "can we go again can we go again can we go again is anyone else going to race AGAIN????").
Steve also pointed out the carbon fiber blah blah blah polished aluminum bar. I asked him to repeat all that and instead he launched into tales of carbon fiber underwear and how helpful it is when racing. I'm not completely clear on what he meant, but I'd stay away from car #34 if you're ever there.
On the way out, there's a sign that says "Remember, you're not on the race track anymore." Nevertheless, Liz and I left first and the boys still beat us home. If we ever go again, Liz and I are putting wicker baskets with plastic zinnias on the fronts of our go-karts.