My birthday today will be lame, literally, as I'm home on crutches at my cottage in the deep, dark, spooky woods with a sprained foot swollen to the size of a zeppelin. (I named it "Hindenburg.") My apologies to a few gentlemen here, as I had to cancel my first jigging jaunt to the Oktoberfest opening weekend of the Texas Renaissance Festival, as well as a couple of lewd interludes. (I gave the lusty lads plenty of notice, and we've rescheduled.)
Alas, next weekend's schedule and opportunities for Fancy Fantasy Field Trips to the faire's s 1001 Dreams weekend are in question, too, until I get an okay from my doctor. I should be fine for TRF trekking and private entertaining at my palace of pleasure later in the month, however.
I'd like to thank those who have invited me to various celebrations, but I need a bit of rest with my foot propped up. No Riverdancing for this Irish lass with sass. I was in New Orleans last weekend, missed a step-off in a dark corridor during a ghost tour. Whether a spook shoved me or I had too many Hurricanes at Pat O' Brien's may be conjectured, but it was dark as bat wings. As the tour guide alluded, evidently the Big Easy always has a surprise for tourists, especially those who don't take the spirits there seriously.
I still plan on enjoying a conflagration of 56 candles on a cake, BBQ, Jameson, wee woofs, a small gathering of friends and family at the Irish Chihuahua Refuge while I sit on a tuffet like Miss Muffet. I wish all of you an equally lovely Friday surrounding by what and who you love.
