So, yesterday, Daniel and I went to a 90th birthday party for his grandmother. I like 90th birthdays. More people should have 'em.

And I was good, and didn't use the "You don't look a day over 85!" joke. (Not that the joke is a terrible one, but I have a feeling she's heard it a lot lately.) It's strange. You reach an age at some point - I'm not sure what it is, but Daniel's grandmother is well past it - where people stop feeling that it's impolite to talk about your being old. Which is fine, although it must be a little odd when you realize that you've made that transition.

I suppose there's a similar transition that happens - the one where people stop saying things to you like, "Oh, but you're too young to understand that." I'm mostly through that one, though not completely, because some mornings I apparently roll out of bed looking like I'm not old enough to buy a beer. Lately, I've been getting the, "Oh, but you don't have kids, so you don't understand that" variation.

Here we are - I meant to talk about a birthday party, and I'm constructing a scheme for the stages of life categorized by the silly remarks people make to you during them.

Anyway, the party was fun. Everyone in the extended family seems to be doing well. There was chocolate cake and strawberries. (Strawberries! I've had strawberries and asparagus this weekend. It really is spring.)