My brother Axel perfectly captures how I feel.
I know many people embrace their natal day with euphoric glee, but if you’re like me, you take this day off work, sleep in and wake thinking this uplifting thought:
Me: Wow, I’m officially seventeen years shy of seventy. Is 9 am too early to down a fifth of gin and call it breakfast?
Fortunately, I have only gone partially to seed and I’m confident that I can still pass for 48 ½ at least in low lighting when around the clueless and anyone blind.
Sure. That’s me.
My friends, family, boss and colleagues have all treated me well.
My father called me last Sunday morning to ensure that he was the very first to re-remind me of my birthday before rocket-launching into a tirade about my sister, Dovima, who hit a milestone involving a six and a zero last month.
Box of hand-picked all dark chocolate See’s candy from Dovima.
Dad: I can’t believe how old your sister is now. Can you?
Me: You’re 85! What’s there to believe?
Dad: Why are you talking about leaves?
My father has all of his marbles but he’s extremely hard of hearing, something I inherited from him along with a degree of wit, narrow feet and a propensity for whining.
My long-time bud, Martini Max, hell-bent on not screwing up on this date for the twentieth year in a row (not to imply that I keep track of this sort of reliable snafu), sent me a card that arrived in Tuesday’s mail.
Trademark Martini Max-style card.
He also emailed me the following:
Martini Max email: I have your b-day listed in neon on my desk calendar so I don’t forget!!!
At The Grind, my sidekick, Greg, took it upon himself to get me a modest cake, a dense, gluten free, dark chocolate concoction with a thin layer of raspberry jam under a layer of semi-sweet chocolate glaze dusted with edible gold.
Ta da!
I have no idea how he knew exactly what cake to get.
Don’t screw this up.
The bakery asked him if he wanted it inscribed and sprinkled with edible gold stars. He knows me well so he knows my aversion to ostentation and artifice. He declined. While we were eating the cake he mentioned the stars and how he figured cheesy decoration might make me recoil prompting me to bleat:
Me: Oh, that’s too gay?
Our boss, Elsbeth, and colleague, (not) Under Ling (anymore), howled at that one. I noticed that Elsbeth, who always writes our names on the envelopes of birthday cards in her elaborate art school-style script, had left mine blank.
For no name me.
I protested this indignity:
Me: You left the envelope of my card blank!
Elsbeth: You don’t know your name by now?
All that was missing from that response was a snare drum rumble and cymbal crash.
My superior has been on a roll with me all week. On Tuesday night, I ate an Ataulfo mango for the first time.
Warning: Ataulfo mangoes.
I have always been an ambitious eater and I thought:
Me: Huh. Something different. Sign me up!
Yet I was unaware until after I ate my Ataulfo mango that it’s a puck of pure acid and it left me feeling like I was reenacting the meltdown at Three Mile Island inside my very sensitive guts.
When I shared the news of my brush with accidental death by mango with Elsbeth, she listened attentively to my horror story. Yet, I had the distinct impression that my superior was repressing gales of laughter when she observed:
Elsbeth: That happened because your body is so pure now.
On the woman-front there is some validity to that these days for I am once again single although I will be suffering my birthday with my dear friend, Milton. We’re seeing a play, End of the Rainbow, on Broadway tonight. This is the story about the last six months of Judy Garland’s life, and unfortunately, it’s not being performed Carol Burnett sitcom-style. What I anticipate will be the even bigger tragedy though is our seats. We have okay seats in the mezzanine, but we could have had terrific seats in the center orchestra at a deep discount if I didn’t blow that opportunity.
Excellent seats.
Last fall, I got involved with a dame with an ass that was worthy of display in the Louvre who earlier this spring lured me away from pouncing on those great seats with a link to a fantasy costume site and this promise:
Pick one out and I’ll wear it for you on your birthday.
I felt like I had won the Powerball lottery or at the very least was a disgraced politician. The choices were so extensive I could not stop drooling and had to invest in a bib. I also had difficulty making up my mind – did I want her to go in the direction of animal, mineral or Bettie Page? Then, something unanticipated happened, this femme fatale kicked me to the curb via G-chat. Poof. No tantric sex with a knockoff Bettie Page for me.
That ain’t happening either.
Adding injury to insult, our great End of the Rainbow seats on my birthday were history. Milton the Infinitely Patient Friend claims that he’s fine with our mezzanine seats since he’s too kind to say out loud what he is surely thinking:
Milton: You and those fuckin’ dames! Will you ever learn?
Now that I’m seventeen years shy of seventy, maybe I’ll finally start catching on.
Classic birthday card to me from Milton.
Lame Adventures 
Happy Birthday! I hope you have a fantabulous birthday having all kinds of lame-less adventures!!!
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Thanks Susie! Last night was pretty lame-less for Milton and I, but we were the last patrons to exit the restaurant that we visited post-play. He was pretty sure that because we out-stayed our welcome they had secretly taken our pictures and will never make the mistake of letting us in again.
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Awesome! Are you in a play or did you watch one?
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No, Susie, I am not a thespian. Milton and I saw a play on my b-day, End of the Rainbow, about the last six months of Judy Garland’s booze-soaked, pill-filled life. Good times for all!
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Awesome!
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Happy, Happy Birthday and thank you for posting this jocose treatise. ;–D
R.
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You’re welcome Robert. Glad you enjoyed reading about my advancing decrepitude!
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Happy Birthday M’lady! 🙂 The occasion however, prompts me to wonder… have you ever tried to make an estimate of just how many photos you’ve snapped in your life?
:>
MJM
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Aw, thanks Michael. For you, I do have a count of how many photos I’ve taken since I started writing LA — 8,322. In my life overall, I estimate that I have not taken that many more (well less than 1000) since it had been 25 years since I last owned a camera. I had a nice Minolta SRT-201 but it was stolen in 1985 and I never replaced it. Processing and having prints made were expenses I loathed until the advent of digital.
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And thank YOU for an interesting response! Yes, digital photography makes QUITE a difference! And Sara’s offerings are quite impressive!
🙂
MJM
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That’s very cool that you checked out Sara’s Blipfoto site MJM. Hey I wouldn’t steer you in the direction of crap. That can be found in steaming mounds right here. Where else would someone know they’ve shot 8,322 photos and counting since I shared that intimate factoid with you.
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Also, if you want to check out some REALLY cool photos, check out my blogger buddy Kathy’s partner’s Sara’s journal on Blipfoto http://www.blipfoto.com/QueSeraSara. Plus today is Sara’s b-day!
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I looked and yes they ARE really cool. Very, very nice.
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Happy birthday, dear V! Have a great one! You almost share a birthday with Sara.
Hugs,
Kathy
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Thanks K. Yes, I’m very aware that Sara and I have b-days that are one day apart. I didn’t want to stain your lovely post about her with my own special brand of mess! I hope you guys are having a great time celebrating today.
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Happy anniversary of your birth! I love the allusion to 17 years shy of 70….
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Thanks Tracy. I controlled the urge to write 27 years shy of 80. That’s just too ugh to think about.
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You would have to bring that up.
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Oops.
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Ah, sweet card from Milton. And I LOVE the cake. Loved the humor in your post, too. Yeah, you should know your name by now. Sorry about the mangos. Just 17 years shy of 70: I am shy of 70, too, and that is how old I am — 70, although I remain incredulous. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and enjoy the play!
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That cake was excellent! The play was kinda heavy, kinda annoying and kinda good. Yes, Samantha, you are indeed incredulous!
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Fun post! Happy birthday! 😀
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Thanks Tom!
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Oh, happy day! The addition of you to this world was a brilliant move for sure. Wish I could be there to enjoy some of that cake! Wow. Gold dusted. That’s posh. And a whole box of See’s dark chocolates?! You are loved, girl.
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Yes, I do feel very appreciated by the people in my life that count most — and that includes my blogger buddies SDS! I will pace myself as I eat that chocolate though — the metabolism had definitely downshifted from overdrive to second gear.
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Happy Birthday to A Terrific Taurus! Eat, Drink & Be Merry! Keep spreading your joy! You are Forever Young!
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Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, thanks Q of P!
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Happy belated birthday! You don’t look a day over ickety-one (with “ickety” being any age you choose—it’s your birthday, your choice.)
Love the virgin olive interview card. Especially just the hint of pimento stuffing peeking out of the interviewees. This will forever run through my mind whenever I eat another olive—virgin and otherwise.
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Thanks for the compliment TTPT! That’s a healthy way to view one’s icketies. Pick an ickety and make it yours! I love Max’s card, too.
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Pingback: LXX. Where Am I Now? | Salmon Salad and Mozart
Enjoyed the Betty Page reference as well as more painful insights into your chronic GI issues. With respect to one of your previous paramour’s derrière and it’s necessary placement in the Louvre, well that one hits close to home on a number of levels. Wish I could go into detail, but I dare not. Suffice it to say it involved my 8 year old godson’s first communion today in Massachusetts and the young woman seated in the pew directly in front of me. I am going to burn in hell. But on the bright side I’ll be visiting the museum this summer with my young bride of 25 years. So I can begin to repay her for where my mind was this morning between 9 and 10 o’clock
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Hm, I have the distinct impression that your “young bride of 25 years” does not read LA … Thanks for sharing where your mind was when you were allegedly watching your godson receive his third sacrament for the first time. I probably would have been right there with you, buddy. Church always did one of two things for me — amplified every oldster’s sneeze and cough into uncontrolled hilarity or it completely bored the daylights out of me.
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Greetings Lame Adventurer,
Happy beLated BDay…don’t worry, many of us will be 17 years shy of 70 someday…Wear your new year well!
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I’ll try, Jim. Thanks!
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Madamoiselle Lame’, Bonne Anne’ and as St. Satchel Paige noted ‘you are only as old as you feel if you woke up and forgot how old you were’ are you that young? Very good stuff here! Larry David needs a scribe I hear, but you then have to relocate to LA
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Ah! LD is my favorite fashion icon, but me relocate to LA? He should move back to NYC! Glad you enjoyed visiting Lame Adventure-land enough to comment Jim. The SP quote works for me!
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I am 18 years shy of 70, though I never thought of it that way. Thanks a lot. (Happy late b-day!)
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You’re welcome Judy! Consider this the Lame Adventures-style response to pointless blathering like 40 is the new 30. No one 20 wants to think that that’s the new 10.
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It was wise to invest in a bib now, as you crawl ever closer to 70 …
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Thanks for the vote of confidence Cat-woman.
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In the words of the 1996 republican nominee for president when queried whether it was “boxers or briefs”…it “depends.” And if Mr. Dole had simply heeded the advice of George Costanza regarding when to leave the room, we might not have had to collectively suffer the Kenneth Starr hearings. But that, no doubt, gets us back to your Louvre issue…
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Mike, is this your eclectic way of confirming that you also appreciate a fine ass because I highly doubt that either of us gives a rat’s butt about Bob Dole’s 88-year-old haunches or whether he wears boxers, briefs or Depends — and don’t get me started on Ken Starr.
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Well in a way, but really my allusion to Mr. Warmth was spurred on by the Cat-woman’s bib reference. I have a feeling we share quite a few proclivities…both political and otherwise. Ken Starr is right up there in my estimation with Dick Cheney and Scooter Libby, but as usual I digress. Hoped you liked the Seinfeld reference because it is truly a rule I try to live by.
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Yes, Mike, you and I do seem to “share quite a few proclivities…both political and otherwise” but … I hope you’re sitting, I seldom ever watched Seinfeld with the exception of the Soup Nazi and Master of Your Own Domain episodes (friends ordered me to watch those). I worked in TV commercial film production for about a decade, thankless work that was exceeded misery-wise when I blew another dozen years of my life as a cog in the Hell’s Armpit Department at a Major News Network. Anyway, I loathe watching network TV because I find commercials unbearable. Back in the day when I had HBO I was a huge Curb Your Enthusiasm fan. So, I don’t really get the George reference, but I am familiar with the character. My bud, Martini Max, related to him HUGELY.
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Thanks for the mini career history. I can only say that Master of Your Own Domain is possibly among the 5 greatest half hours in commercial television history. I will try to refrain from any superfluous Seinfeld references in the future. In terms of edification, George felt that the only thing one can do in a social setting when you deliver a killer comedic line that draws guffaws is to simply leave the room/building etc. Hence the Dole Depends line.
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Wish that sensibility could apply to the workplace; my colleagues and I would be skipping out the door by 10 am daily. Thanks for the Seinfeld lesson, Mike!
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