44

My birthday is the day before Hitler's. True, I came around 20 years after Hitler was gone forever, but it's still sad that this is the easiest way to remember my birthday by. Or, I could have said it falls on the anniversary of the Oklahoma bombing. Not sure which is worse.

This year it's number 44. I'm no wiser than when I was 43, though. I don't feel older, just the number that follows my name and a comma (if written the way the newspapers do) had changed. It's not a round number and there wasn't a celebration. Maggie and I lazed it away nicely, starting with a dim-sum, continuing with an overpriced Cafe Mocha at Distillery district's Balzac's cafe--we like the atmosphere and went to take our fill of Toronto's snobbism; it ended up at the Black Bull on Queen Street West where we took the window table and enjoyed a OK food and a view at the artsy, wacky people strolling by. The shocker came with the $23 parking bill at the Richmond and John underground parkade. It costs more than a dinner for one! If I remember the lesson when I'm 45, I'll take the subway to downtown!