The Birthday from Hell

Every year I wish people would ignore my birthday or, if they must acknowledge it, to do so quietly in a way suited to my advancing age and fragile state of mind. This year was the worst in a long string of horrible birthdays.

My husband actually said "Happy Birthday." I should have stopped right there. He has not said that in about twenty years. Then he actually asked me if I was starting to feel old. Something kind of like a conversation then ensued. That would have been another good stopping place.

I was going to make a spice cake, so I wouldn't have to eat one of those store things with the dark blue "frosting". Dja notice that no matter what color scheme they approach, they always manage to get some of that dark blue stuff on there? Well, I never got around to baking that cake...

My grandson woke up several times during the night saying his leg hurt. He is three and is not a crybaby. Then in the morning, when everyone, the six on hand anyway, was up and moving around and starting the day, we noticed he did not want to get out of bed. Then when we tried to encourage him to get up, he said he didn't want to cuz his leg hurt. When grandpa picked him up, he yelled kind of loud in pain and began to cry. He was at our place cuz it was date night for mom, so we had to call her to come over a little sooner than she had planned. When she arrived, we took him to the acute care place, which is kind of a cross between a hospital and an ER .

We were there almost four hours. They did a lot of blood work and xrays and decided it must be a pulled muscle or sore tendon. They couldn't even determine from interviewing him exactly what hurt. So they suggested we try ibuprofen cuz it is more of an anti-inflammatory. And sure enough, by evening, he was taking a few steps. I stopped on the way home and purchased a small sheet cake with a lot of dark blue frosting on it.

So we went to the Buffalo Wings place for dinner and I had a beer! Totally the high point of the day! We didn't do the candles and photo in the birthday hat thing, and I feel kind of bad about that. Crushed, actually.

Ben seems fine and walked and played today. What the heck hurt him so bad?

Next year I check anonymously into a motel with a book the day before the birthday.

Windmills

My husband's family is originally from Spain. The offspring have always had a little thing for Don Quixote. They usually have a copy of Picasso's drawing, or a little statue of Don Quixote on horseback, and, of course, the often-owned, seldom-read, book itself.

I am thinking there is a little more to this than interest in or affection for a charming Spanish folk "hero". I think they see sort of a common bond, or they have taken the character's traits too much to heart.

My 39 year old daughter is currently in a relationship with a sort of nice, very needy, guy. She walked away from a long-standing decent job to move in with this guy, and now they are on a sort of quest. They look for jobs. They send out resumes and go to job fairs. I do not think they have any interest in actually taking a job or earning money.

She called to tell me of this wonderful interview she had. It was with a company that made earpieces for musicians. They count among their clients a rock band that has a name that refers to hearing impaired felines, a particular favorite of my daughter. Her enthusiasm was boundless. Who needs to go to work or earn money when you can get this excited over an interview? Maybe I should read Don Quixote, tho I have no desire to do so, to find out if he actually stabs a windmill blade, and what then happens. But I don't think I care enough.

I was recently debating if I should send her a small amount of money each month to make her life more comfortable and to perhaps keep her from thinking of returning home. Then I forced myself to think of how bad it would hurt if I went outside and banged my head against the garage wall.

A Fresh, Cool Breath of Air

I am reading the latest Michael Crichton, State of Fear. I am so delighted to find out that I am not the only person alive that thinks "Global Warming" is a bunch of baloney. If you are the kind of person that does not want facts, or, as I choose to label it in this instance, "reality" shoved down your throat in the form of fiction, then I urge you to buy or borrow this book anyway just to read his highly editorialized but factual bibliography. And heed it, and share it with all your friends, enemies, cohorts and relatives. Feel free to stop strangers on the street to tell them about this work.

Even if what he says is already known to you, or suspected by you, the novel is a very entertaining techno-romp. But, keep in mind, every minute you are reading, "the footnotes are real".

And there is really no need for you to question my motives. I think we already know that we do not need to help Michael Crichton make any more money.

Sunrise

I wake up at 1:30 a.m. and finish a novel and start another. As I start chapter three I pause and try to remember what the novel I just finished was about. When I get that sorted out in my head, --it takes a few minutes cuz I have it mixed up with that other novel I was trying to read about transplanting the fetuses into the Supreme Court Justices that stunk so bad, the novel, not the justices--I have to remember, in order all the verses to "The Last Time I Saw Richard". And this is one of those times that I am probably not going to get back to sleep.

I really have to call and get my Welbutrin Prescription increased.

I am so worried about my granddaughter. I have no idea what to do about it except worry. Her paternal grandmother is institutionalized with schizophrenia, and I fear that it is in her future. She makes these weird little snake noises to comfort herself, and it drives me right up the wall, chilling my heart at the same time. She wears these weird clothes to hide herself, and she is so beautiful and darling, and unwilling to deal with her cuteness. And I reprimand myself for still thinking that being beautiful and darling is the part that is important and what she should deal with. And the part about all the twins I know or have heard of, where one of them is either dead or has schizophrenia, is in the forefront of my mind all the time, afffecting everything I think or see or know about my cute little granddaughter. And having to be raised by this loon that is me cannot be good for her.

My mind is like one of those old desks with all the little cubby holes stuffed with pieces of paper, cuz that is how my information or knowledge is stored. I can sit for hours and try to sort it out, but it is an impossible job, and will never be anything but mishmash. So, this morning, I made a little progress on the cubby hole labeled Joni Mitchell songs.

I would much rather sleep.

And the dominant characteristic of this morning's glorious sunrise is that it shows up all the fingerprints on my deck windows. I will go wash those windows now and try not to think about whether or not snakes even make a noise.