What, no candles?

Let it never be said that Mr Stapler and I don't know how to party. For his birthday, I got up before he fully awoke. I left to go to church, forgetting to eat breakfast, so my stomach rumbled like a freight train all the way through the service. Nice.

Much later in the day, we met up so that he could bring me the computer charger that I had left at his house. We decided to go to Kmart. Because there is nothing that says birthday merriment like a Sunday afternoon spent strolling the completely-trashed aisles of Kmart.

Not only was it Kmart, but it was the very Kmart that I had worked at as a cashier when I was 19. I was regaling Mr Stapler with this fascinating history when we got to the checkout line, where two heavily-mascara'ed girls, both about the age I had been when I slaved there, were working.

Mr Stapler and I might as well not have existed, because the girls ignored us and kept talking as they scanned our items (a lovely 4-tier wire rack in chrome for Mr S; five Hawaiian print dish towels for me. Both Martha Stewart brand).

"Well, it's funny because I used to be so tiny," said Blondie to her friend. "I was like a size 00 or less than a 00. But now I am like a one or a three. What size pants do YOU wear?" she asked the other girl.

"Oh, man, it's so bad. Like a 7 or 9," said the second girl, a Latina.

"That's because you have a huge butt," said Blondie.

I gaped. "She did NOT just say that," I said.

"Uhhhh, thanks," said the Latina sarcastically.

"I mean, it's ok, white girls don't have any butts, you know, but I wish I did have a booty like you," Blondie babbled.

"I beg your pardon," I said, turning around. "Here is your evidence. If there is a big butt competition, I believe I would be the winner."

That shocked and shut them up for a second. Yes, the old lady does indeed have a colossal ass.

"I want to let it be known that, though I worked at this very Kmart, I never once told someone they had a big butt," I proclaimed.

"It's okay, she's my friend," said Blondie.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," I warned. "I'd keep an eye on my Coke from now on because you never know when you might find a dead bug floating in it."

Because you KNOW I would.

"You're blogging about this?" said Mr Stapler.

"How can I not?" I asked.

He took me back to my car and we parted ways, having celebrated a mid-40s birthday about as well as one expects.

(Note: we did have a very nice evening together last night. Complete with our favorite restaurant owner singing in Italian and tiny cups of chocolate liqueur. Not bad.)