Bacon Birthday

Today is my birthday.

The kids woke me with breakfast in bed. Buttered toast, orange juice and enough cereal to choke a horse. They laughed and danced around my bedroom—they had pulled off a surprise! And the toast was perfect!

Lillie gave me a present: a toothbrush she had bought with her own money. I promised to use it right after my delicious breakfast.

They asked, so when is our breakfast? Are you making bacon and eggs?

We love bacon. Bacon has become a big part of my life, a symbol of my new freedom.

During my marriage, there was no bacon. Lucy and I did not eat beef or pork, and turkey bacon was a poor substitute for the real thing.

Shortly after our break up, about the time I was waking up to sex, I began to order bacon with my breakfast. God, what was I thinking in giving that up? Bacon is just so damn good.

Bacon, sex and freedom.

My friends know my thing for bacon.

This morning, as I was preparing to make breakfast for the kids, there was a knock at the door. A delivery from Lobel’s, the great Upper East Side butcher.

Two pounds of bacon, with a card: happy birthday from Jessica.

She is so good with the meat and potatoes of life.

Such great serendipity augurs well for the day. I made bacon, eggs and cheese grits. We gorged on a giant breakfast.

The kids go back to their mom this evening.

I have arranged a few very good birthday gifts to myself, and my friends have arranged others.

I am going to have incredible wall-to-wall sex this week.