Wednesday, May 6, 2009
One day of celebration is not nearly enough compensation for living entire years, and certainly when one turns 50, a birthday should definitely be plural. Therefore it is a custom in my country (a mystical land faraway in my mind) to devote at least a whole week to celebrate one's existence. (Unless I don't like you, then I burn black candles and kill chickens on your big day.)
But no blood sacrifices or coffin-nails today. Because today is Dave's birthday and I like him.
I like-like him.
But back to me. One time ( at bandcamp) I had a two week birthday celebration, mostly because some people forgot and then remembered, but that's ok because I got like a card or a present a day not to mention the apologies and self flogging and/or loathing. It was great.
But my point is: Today marks the first day of the celebration of Dave.
Fifty years ago, a not-so-tiny baby boy was born to John and May. Immediately after his first cry which loosely translated meant "What the fuck am I doing here again??? Damn you Karma!!!" he made it clear to the world that he was special.
Only a few hours old, he started ranting in several foreign accents, on and on about how "He hat bin heah beforer, thank you vedy much," etc. Totally politically incorrect from the get-go, he also tried out some cultural impersonations in which reportedly the words mothafucka-shit were heard. His parents, mouths open in such awe and also terrified weren't sure where to turn or what church to leave him on the steps of, so in desperation, his father stuck him in front of a piano and said "Aye, shut up and play already."
And the rest is history.
And now we get to the part of the blog where I take you on a trip down memory lane. I do this, my friends, because I am 51. Having had a whole year to get used to my new elderly status, I have found the old person activity I like the most (coming in close second is hitting people in the backs of the ankles with my shopping cart) is boring people with talk of days gone by.
See, when I was a little girl I hated birthday parties. I even hated my own because I had to do things like blow out candles and have people sing and stare at me. But I really hated going to other kids parties because back in the day mothers dropped you off and ran off to do other things and so you were stuck there for the duration. Back then parents didn't waste their time trying to outdo each other, so every single party was the same. Same old games - and my least favorite was pin the tail on the donkey. (It wasn't until years later that I saw the fun in being blindfolded and turned around and around. ) At seven years old, I wasn't amused. Musical chairs? Way too aggresive. I'm like "hell if you want the chair that bad - take it!"
So anyway, one day I was at this birthday party that just happened to be at a friends' house who lived right across the street. No need to be picked up from that party! I could just go home. So I tried to sneak out of the house but had to go by two mothers who were chatting at the kitchen table and they caught me inches from the front door.
I was just inches from a clean getaway.*
Today this memory comes back. Today. Why didn't I remember this weeks ago when I booked the venue for his birthday party.
At the restaurant right across the street from us.
Any volunteers for door guard duty?
*Jack Nicholson, Terms of Endearment- 1983. I also love this line from the same movie, same actor: "You're gonna need a lot of drinks to kill the bug you have up your ass." I've used that on so many people it's just epidemic.
Posted by Princess Stupidhead at 10:05 AM
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