The Thing About Birthdays . . .

The thing about birthdays is they come every year . . .

. . . and as my sister Julie would say, thank the 8-pound, 7-ounce Baby Jesus for that.

Champagne Homerun Derby? Oh, you better believe it. 2-for-3? With men on base? That's me, baby. That's .667, if you're rounding up.

And I am.

Presents? Well, yes, if you've got friends and sisters and peeps like I have. Sesame Street wrapping paper? Naturally.

We spent the day at the beach -- of course we did -- and had margies on our deck afterward, and then it was time for that age-old tradition, the obligatory birthday self-timer photo.

Lovely. Perfect. But wait! Where's Jonny V??

Oh there he is. But now MB's not ready . . .

. . . and now nobody's ready. Because none of us can stop talking for one second.

See?

Not only can we not stop talking, we can't hold a pose for 12 seconds either.

Oh there, that's better. I even like the double triple exposed MB -- that's sort of how most of us were feeling by then.

Jonny, come on now. Relax. Make yourself at home.

O-kay. Now we're getting somewhere . . .

Aw, look at my peeps, wouldja? Who could ask for better peeps than I have?

Nobody, that's who.

Thank you guys -- thank all you peeps -- for a fabulous day and a spectacular birthday weekend. I felt like the Queen of Sheba. I am the Queen of Sheba.

And now please excuse me while I check into detox.