Yes, it’s about that time again and to celebrate, I went to the DMV to have my license photo retaken. The last one was taken when I was pregnant with my son. He is 21 now.
At the time, I was embarrassed of the way I looked in it because I was heavier than usual due to being seven months pregnant. Through the years, it magically made me look thinner and thinner to where I actually preferred it to the real thing. It was only the 90s permed hair that made me decide to go for the re-take. Ugh. It left me wishing for the ability to Photoshop my official NYS photo like I do for family portraits. At least I have good hair now.
My guess is that though the next set of years, I will gradually go though the same process and this photo will actually surpass my “good looks” (relatively speaking) and I will grow to prefer it.
But for now, my consolation is in getting mistaken for a friend of my daughters’ and not their mother. Still happens and while it should give me joy that this could possibly happen, the part I REALLY love is how much they hate it when it happens.
There is a trick involved in getting mistaken in this way. It involves alcohol consumption and dim lighting.
Today was my daughter’s birthday and it was the first one that she was not home for as she is now a working girl. By chance, her sister happened to be traveling to her town, so they had a birthday celebration without me – without the rest of us – but mostly me.
Sad at not being there for this special day, I called to wish a happy birthday and got a rowdy group of revelers.
My legs in the stirrups for 18 hours, Google map-like legs of varicose veins, a ton of baby weight to lose (that I am still working on), specially decorated cakes in the shape of Hello Kitty, Sesame Street animals or some round comic book Japanese creature over the last 22 years and I am history. Suddenly I longed for the days of reserving McDonald’s for a party, which I did after hosting one party at my home for 16 six-year-olds that I regretted 15 minutes into the 2 hour-long ( eternity) gig.
So she did have a happy birthday, which is what I was calling to wish her. And I am glad she had a good day with friends and some family. I just wish I could have been there too. I really need a piece of cake.
“Believing hear, what you deserve to hear:
Your birthday as my own to me is dear…
But yours gives most; for mine did only lend
Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend.”
For my birthday today, my girls took me out for a mani-pedi combo, so I am sporting pretty new finger and toe nails. It was very nice.
My husband made lasagne, which takes him the whole day. He does the same dinner for us every year. It was delicious. I was happy too that my daughter observed how funny it was that it takes him the whole day do make a dinner, something I do daily in about 30 minutes for less. Now, THAT observation is a birthday present.
I used to hang around and put my two cents in (he didn’t put any sauce on the top layer – none!) but that was a mistake. I noticed this after about 25 years. I decided to just shut my mouth and let him make dinner. If he made a mistake, it was his. So I don’t get tempted to intercede, I leave to get a mani-pedi combo.
My birthday gift to you other wives out there who might be like I was in my younger years is some advice. Offering unwanted supervision when your beloved is trying to take a load off, even though it is hard for him to do and easy for you, isn’t a good idea. A few mistakes make for a more relaxing dinner atmosphere. And heaven knows, he’s had to eat a few of mine from time to time. Chow.
“Mistakes are part of the dues one pays for a full life.” ~ Sophia Loren
I just celebrated my birthday this past weekend and the kids and husband did a very nice job of presenting me with just about a perfect day. Not only was there no laundry, dishes, or picking anyone up but they managed to take me for a pedi, to the play Mama Mia, back home for a big lasagna dinner and then present opening, followed by a whirlwind of chocolate and desserts. To help me work off the desserts, they gave me the game Dance Party 2 for the Wii which is like Dance, Dance Revolution. It was the best day. I will have to get old more often.
I am happy to say that after 14 tries at dancing to “I Want Candy” my eldest, a very mature 25, was able to best my score, which I got after 3 tries. (It might have been the drinks that she “invented” out of diet Coke and cherry vodka that slowed her down but I am not the type to rub in any one’s imperfections. Heavens, no.)
My husband is the kind that shops for an upcoming famine. Sent to the store with a list that says frozen corn, milk and toilet paper, he returns with 5 bags of corn, 4 gallons of milk and a case of toilet paper. I can only afford to send him shopping when I am out of 2 or 3 items.
He cooks the same way so there was so much leftover lasagna that we had it for 2 nights after that so it meant that I didn’t have to cook for 3 whole nights in a row. I used to rag on him about his overdeveloped need to provide but I decided to give it up for Lent in 2002 and it just stuck. Now I find that it comes in handy. And he is smart enough to know better than complain about having lasagna for 3 nights in a row. See what old age teaches you? How to be happy with what you’ve got.
“I’m very pleased to be here. Let’s face it, at my age I’m very pleased to be anywhere.” ~ George Burns
P.S. I am not sure how weird I am but I cried like a baby at Mama Mia when the mother in the play (Donna) sings the song “Slipping Through My Fingers.” I think I made a spectacle of myself but I really didn’t care. You see, I didn’t have any tissues with me so in desperation, I used a maxi pad that I tried to quietly unwrap inside my purse. Getting old also makes you shamelessly sentimental.