"Dad, some poor creature is in agony," Pinot said, wincing as the howls grew in intensity.

"Put it out of its misery," Grigio begged.

"I can't, not without making you half-orphans. That's mom. She just received her AARP card."

The Contessa is about to cross the half-century mark and is not exactly nifty about turning 50. Sure, the American Association of Retired Persons offers members discounts on hotel rooms, early-bird dinners and health care products. Let's face it, there's a limit to how many cans of Metamucil a person can run through. It's not as if you can slip a teaspoon into your kids' nightly milk. They'd be banned from sleepovers. Making matters worse, turning 50 means those society ladies in the big hats will hunt you down.

"You look good in red," The Big Guy offered.

"You look good sleeping with Bongo."

Cat suggested maybe I should have a surprise party. I don't think so. The biggest surprise at my last party was the look on The Big Guy's face when he got the catering bill. He thought black truffles were chocolate candies that cost a whole lot less than $160 per pound. Besides, it's not safe to hide behind my sofa without wearing a biohazard suit.

A planned party may not be a bad idea. For Cat's birthday a couple of years ago, we hosted a retro hippie party complete with psychedelic party plates and cupcakes. Everyone got a new name like Moonbeam, Sunflower or Rainbow "sit-in" musical chairs using Jimi Hendrix tunes. The Big Guy put the kybosh on the rest of the games, saying parents might be offended. I don't see why anyone would get upset over a simple pin the peace sign on Nixon's tail or drop the acid-pin into the bottle. I do see his point that some parents might not be wild about their sons getting personalized draft cards, and their daughters paper bras. We needed to burn something at the demonstration weenie roast.

There's no reason birthday parties should be just for kids. We didn't have Laser Rage or inflatable moon jumps when I was a kid, just furniture and old fashion run-around-until-you-you're tagged. Most days I feel like I'm bouncing off the walls, so why not do it for real?

"You could play games like hearing aid toss or a scavenger hunt to find your reading glasses," Cat said. "How does a cross-legged hop - first woman to the bathroom wins - sound?"

It sounds as if Bongo's bed might be getting a little crowded.

I've heard about a celebration that's better than a party - Fabulous at 50 Caribbean Cruise. I can't think of anything more delightful than sleeping late in the mornings and lounging all day on a deck reading. Meals would be cooked in some far-off kitchen where I couldn't see dishes piled in the sink or hear "I emptied the trash last night." After a lovely evening relaxing on my balcony, I'd get to turn into a bed made up by someone else who was thoughtful enough to leave a candy on my pillow instead of a note telling me we're out of toilet paper. Best of all, I'd get to drift off to sleep listening to the waves lapping and not Classic ESPN.

Actually, a birthday blow-out isn't what's really nifty about reaching 50. It's no more cooking, cleaning, laundering, grocery shopping and running errands. That's because I'll be retired. I've got the card to prove it.

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of "Don't Chew Jesus!" and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com.