Pre- 31

Last year I posted a thoughtful birthday blog. I suppose this was fitting for the 30th birthday. But 31 is not such a big affair, so I'm freewheelin' a bit more this year.

There are a couple of things that have always happened on my birthday. One was that my grandmother always called and sang "Happy Birthday" to me over the phone. (I'm really going to miss that this year.) The other is that, at some point, my mom calls me and--whether I like it or not--allows me to relive the glory of my birth with her.

This year is a little different because I'll be out of town and incommunicado. Tonight I was at home doing my normal freaking out before any big trip, except this one had a tropical theme ("Where the fuck is my passport!?" and "These are the ugliest bathing suits ever made and Nannette better not judge them," and "I know I have a blue sarong and red flip flops around here somewhere..."). I was also treating myself to my favorite "white trash dinner." [This would be Kraft macaroni and cheese, baked beans, and canned peaches and I'll thank you not to laugh.]

My mom called during all of this excitement and, when I told her what I was eating, said, "I had a 50 cent turkey pot-pie for dinner!" Then she proceeded to tell me about an arm wrestling contest she had just been in where she defeated a beast of a man not once but TWICE. Apparently this man's masculinity was so denigrated that he proceeded to get up from the table without speaking and leave the American Legion in shame. She was very proud of herself and I congratulated her on her guns. I didn't know what else to do.

It was like being home again!

She called again later in the night after closing time at the Legion. As she was getting into her car in the parking lot we started to take our trip down memory lane to the day that I emerged from her loins, but we were interrupted. She was in the middle of fighting with her quasi-boyfriend. He stumbled toward her car yelling because she'd made him return her house keys, and she shouted, "I'm trying to talk to my baby girl!" He paused to say, "Tell her I said hi!" She passed along this information to me: "Junior says hi," [his name really is Junior], and they continued arguing.

Once she got away from all that and was driving home, we had my annual birthday conversation a few days early. She recounted how she went into labor with me during "The Blizzard of '77" and all of the trials and tribulations that went along with it, namely: my grandpa driving her to the hospital on top of a shower curtain so she wouldn't mess up his red crushed-velvet seats, his desperate phone call to the fire department in the middle of the night asking, "Can't you do anything about the roads? I've got a granddaughter coming!" and my mom's amazement that her best friend and my father showed up at the hospital in the same car ("Of course, I didn't know he was fucking her until later!").

It was a good talk.

Anyway, I'm leaving in a couple of hours and I'm going to try and catch a nap first. With any luck I'll finish packing before the Super Shuttle comes; luck is definitely needed, so please wish me it.