I tend to live in a vacuum and sometimes think that nobody out there knows I’m alive. Well, here’s proof to the contrary. On my birthday:
I woke up and on the table where I have my 5:20 a.m. bowl of Sugar Pops were two cards; one from Mrs. Wife and a hand-drawn one from 6-Year Old Daughter. Nothing beats the artwork of a child.
Maria, my Puerto Rican waitress at the diner, asked why I had such a big grin on my face so I told her it was my birthday. I revealed my age and she said, “Aye! Jooo haf veddygoodskin!” When I left, she handed me a bag with three cookies in it, winked, and put her index finger to her lips—the international symbol for keep my mouth shut.
Boss lady at Benevolent Dictators Inc. brought in a truly scrumptious lemon mousse cake. There was no singing, thank god.
Marylyn, the grand old dame from Queens receptionist, keeps a supply of scratch-off lotto tickets in her desk and doles one out to people who are having a birthday. I won $20! I asked her how old she thought I was. She guessed way low! I said I’d tell her my real age but to please not repeat it to anyone. She said, “Well, then, you’d better not tell ME!” I didn’t.
Two of my colleagues went to Barnes & Nobel on their lunch break and bought me a $30 gift card. They put it in a birthday card that played a Motown song when I opened it.
I got an email birthday greeting from a friend in London whom I have not heard from in a very long time. Gone, but not forgotten!
I receive the green light from our hosts and the in-law-baby sitters to go ahead and book a trip to London in September. It’s payback to for DisneyWorld.
In the evening, I attended another Buddhist philosophy/meditation class. It was very satisfying.
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How the hell am I supposed to feel sorry for myself with all that going on? My curmudgeon cred is being compromised. Thank you, all.