It’s Official. I’m Sixty-Six

The blog title won’t change, but my age did. The big day began with a trip to the dermatologist. She froze the barnacles off my back, and that’s good because those stupid crustaceans itched. She told me their proper scientific name. I then told her their common moniker, “Damned Itchy Barnacles“. 

Then it was home again to open the three cards from Sweet Jimmy.  Always three. Always hidden in plain view. Following that, I spent a happy hour coloring a flat wooden bird, part of the gift from grandkids Deven and Mishri.

Jim pulled out his bird identification book to help me sort out just what kind of chick it was.  As you can see, the designation, while not in the book, is apparent. It’s a “Green-headed, Pink-breasted, Weeki Wachee Warbler.”

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Next, it was off to the primary care physician to go over bloodwork regarding my hormone levels. Good news!  My bloodwork is now routine. Three months ago I had the testosterone of a sixteen-year-old boy.  Having such high testosterone at my age–while great fun–is apparently not healthy.

A quiet afternoon was spent watching Jim do laundry. Yay for birthdays! He does laundry even on not-birthdays. But on not-birthdays, I offer to help. On my birthday?  Not a chance.

Lastly out to dinner. I chose the restaurant based on dessert. Recently we’d eaten there and consumed the most delicious gluten-free, warm-with-chocolate-chunks brownie, topped with vanilla ice cream.

As soon as we sat down, Jim flipped the menu to the dessert section. WHAT!? Wasn’t it listed? I had a moment when I thought I might cry. I nearly turned into six, rather than sixty-six.

Jim, good man that he is, tracked down waitstaff and found gluten-free chocolate cake was a special. Nope, it wasn’t the same as the brownie we’d had previously. However, it was warm, had a pipette of Jack Daniels squeezed into the center, and altogether satisfied this old girl.

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The little hole in the cake is where the booze pipette was inserted.

 

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This is how the bill is presented. Clever, huh?

Today is my second day of being sixty-six. So far it’s been lovely. Stevia-sweetened iced coffee, cottage cheese with almonds–my breakfast of choice which made a friend, Steve, gag when I described it–and a bit of reading.

The following clipping was yesterday’s “born today” blurb.  I liked it.  I wondered aloud if the paper simply prints the same words daily.  After all, who reads “born today” unless truly born on that particular day?  It seems Jim does.  He assured me it’s not a cookie cutter reading.

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Happy to learn my hard work and effort will pay off this year! Bodes well for upcoming Etsy shop.  I’ll learn more on Tuesday when my friend and I visit Psychic Valentina.  Don’t scoff.  Valentina knows my future and next week I will too. How fun is that?!  I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

My Baby Turned Thirty-Four today. (I’m still thirty-nine.)

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This was taken in first grade.  My father chose the outfit Mo has on as her fifth birthday gift. After third grade, she refused to wear anything but boy’s corduroy Levi’s.  By high school, she insisted on wearing pajama pants to school daily.  I was lazy enough to be fine with that.  No ironing.

Today my daughter, Maureen, turned thirty-four.  That kid has been a lifetime of delights.  Mo is smart, hilarious, wonderfully sarcastic, artistic, and athletic.  And no I’m not biased.

Thirty-four years ago today we were in the Wilmington Delaware maternity ward.  Mo’s scant hair was pulled up into a small ponytail on the top of her head, held in place with a bit of pale pink yarn.  She was swaddled as tight as a pea in a pod.

My parents brought Matt to visit.  Mom had made cupcakes.  We gave Mo her first birthday party.  She had gotten a gift for her brother, carried it with her right straight outta’ the womb.  A Fisher Price cop car, motor cycle, and policeman.

Mo went through a four-year-old phase where she refused to answer to anything but “Brucie.”  She sat at the top of a sliding board, screeching at her pre-school teacher “NO, I’M NOT MAUREEN!  My name is BRUCIE!”  We complied.

That teacher suggested to me we hope for a kindergarten teacher who was comfortable with a “creative” child.  I think she meant willful.

In first grade, she wouldn’t sit still.  Teacher Miss Evensen told her to pretend she was in a box.  Mo mimed being in a glass box, reaching out touching sides, ceiling, floor, and moving her mouth to pantomime speech.

By high school, all her buddies congregated at our house.  I remember one night sitting on my bed, reading when suddenly I was surrounded by about six sixteen-year-old boys.

Her senior year, Mo was planning to go to a Jimmy Buffet concert.  The day of the event our yard men came to mow and trim.  Suddenly there was a knock at the back door. The guys had something to show us in the garden.  Lo and behold, there under the evergreens were cases of beer and oceans of liquor bottles.  We gathered it all up, put it on the kitchen island and called Maureen down from her room.

Her eyes bugged out when she saw the booze. Busted. She was forbidden to go to the concert. Then we called our friends, invited them to party and drank up her goodies.

During her four years at Notre Dame Mo spent every summer as a counselor at Camp Sweeney, a Texas camp for diabetic kids.  She and I would drive from Chicago to Texas together.  I’d fly home, leaving her with the car.  I loved those road trips!  We rarely left Chicago before 3 in the afternoon.  We played great games in the car.  One of my personal favorites was trying to decide how we’d murder someone and where we’d hide the body.  We could play that for hours.

Hard to believe my baby now has a baby of her own, Tate.  He is now singing Mary had a Little Lamb.  Mo used to sing that.  She pronounced it Yittle Yamb.  A yittle yamb who yived down the yane.  I would tuck her in for a nap, then stand outside her door giggling as she sang to herself.

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Here he is in his crib. Could the kid be any cuter?

 

Now she’s is a critical care nurse.  I suggested she be an artist. But for some reason she feels being a nurse contributes more than a lifetime spent coloring.  Go figure.

Mo, happy birthday and thanks for thirty-four years of laughter. We can’t wait to see you next month!