It’s my
birthday today. Forty-five years. I’m not sure what that means, or if it means
anything specifically, or even if it's supposed to.
I’m not much of a sentimentalist, although birthdays
and New Years are about the only national holidays that I don’t consider
hypocritical in most ways. They remain what they have always been: reasons to
party. And numbers don’t mean much either, do they? I appreciate the experience that the extra time provides, and occasionally wish I’d known then what I know now, but I had to not know it
at some point to be able to learn it, right? Chickens, eggs, always getting us
into arguments.
Yesterday was my first Friday without a casino job
to go to. I played hockey twice before lunch was over, then went to Mom’s. Big
days, like birthdays and major holidays, are hard on her. It’s like they’re
reminders of her lack of continuity. She called as I was driving over,
despondent over the thought that she never sees me. That she was losing me. In
her eyes I was twenty or so at that moment and about to move away. But I
wasn’t. I was on my way home. So we held each other at the door for a long time
and she cried, and I kinda did too. After that she seemed better. Hugs solve a
lot of things.
It was snowing like a snow globe in the hands of a
toddler this morning. G. sent me a text to say happy birthday and told me that
the sky was sprinkling confetti in honor of the day. Whether or not it’s true,
I’m having a damn near perfect Saturday: some interwebbing (but not onTwitter), posting news about idiots and charlatans and their ilk and art and grammar. And
revising HOG. I am more excited about getting manuscript time than I am about
my birthday, although time with friends tonight will be very cool. But the idea
of getting the mss done, well, that tickles me in ways I can’t explain.
Which reminds me… I promised myself I’d keep this
short. Miles to go...
P.S. New artist alert. New to me anyway. If she’s
not new to you, why didn’t you tell me?
