Giving Good Birthday

I was busy all he live-long day.  I'm not so used to that anymore.  Up and at 'em, I sent my mother email and text message birthday songs and messages, then picked up my mother's birthday cake, flowers, and a card.  Took it to her early in the morning and sat around talking for awhile.  I told her I was going to the gym for a second, then I would go home, shower, and pick her up for lunch.  

At the gym, I learned something.  Guess who else's birthday was yesterday?  Oh, yea, what irony--Taylor Swift!  What?  She turned 35, or so I was told by a woman at the gym who also shared the 13th birth date.  Well, now. . . I guess I understand Swift a bit more now.  

And it turns out I was wrong about the P. Diddy/Swift connection.  It seems she HAS been to some of his parties. . . or so my dark web source informed me.  She's a bad girl.  Bad.  

After the gym and some quick ablutions, I drove to my mother's house and picked her and her friends up and took them to the Olive Garden.  As always, the "all you can eat" soup and salad filled me up quickly.  I gave my mother her Chanel No.5 and the girls gave my mother presents, too.  Then she got her free birthday desert and the waitress and the table sang Happy Birthday.  My mother was pleased.  

After that, we headed back to my house for cake and ice cream, and oh, everybody agreed it was the best cake ever, a raspberry chocolate cake.  We ate it and the ice cream in the lovely afternoon air on the deck, but the girls, having never been here before, were enamored of my house.  

"It fits you," they said.  

By the time we had finished the cake and cleaned up, the day was moving on and the girls were looking sleepy, so I took them back and helped my mother in with her things, the presents and the leftover cake.  We chatted a bit, and by the time I got home, it was four o'clock.  I was pooped.  I decided to have a cocktail and a cheroot on the deck, and as I sat out in the cool afternoon air, I called Tennessee.  We were meeting up for dinner at five.  Yup.  Five.  We are early eaters, but it was important to beat the rush if we were to get seats at the bar.  

The cocktail picked me up enough, but I was still dragging.  Dinner with T--pizza.  I hadn't eaten anything but carbs all day.  

While we were eating and chatting at the outside bar, a fellow who had been sitting next to us came over and said, "You two should have a podcast.  I could hear your conversation.  It was hilarious."

Uh-oh.  

"You shouldn't be giving it away for free," he said.  

"Right.  Dinner's on you," I replied.  

"Sure," he joked.  "Put it on my tab."

He went to a table with his wife and another couple.  

"Shit.  What were we saying?"

We began recalling all the insouciant things we had said.  Much of it was. . . bad.  We were telling blue tales of some of the town's imperial families.  

"I think I said Black Sheep's name," I cringed.  "He probably knows the family."

"Probably.  I think I recognize him from somewhere." 

It came to light that he and his friends had walked out on a tab for several hundred dollars a few nights ago.  The bartenders had to pay it.  He apologized and gave them the money to cover the tab.

"Fuck. . . he should have doubled it for the inconvenience," I said.  "He's being a cheap bastard."

When we had finished dinner, I walked over to the table where he and his wife sat with another couple.

"Thanks for dinner," I said.  I was thinking that we should have told the bartender that he was picking up our dinner tab.  She would have done it, I think, just for shits and giggles knowing we had it covered.

T and I strolled down to the Boulevard to see the show.  The village was out.  The sidewalks were crammed.  You couldn't get into a restaurant or bar.  It will pretty much be like that day and night until Christmas.  

T has a big hoity-toity party Saturday night and is leaving town for the rest of the year on Sunday morning.  

"I've got something for you," he said.  "I'll bring it over tomorrow."

"O.K.  But don't sweat it."

"No, man, I want to see you before I go."

I hope it is no more than. bottle of whiskey.  But I am pretty much going off liquor until Dry January is through.  I'll stick with wine and beer through the holidays.  That should make the dry month easier to begin.  I need to start working on my teas and elixirs.  Spirit time.  Ommmm.  

No meds again last night.  I didn't sleep for shit.  I'm going to have to start doing my relaxation/meditation thing before bed, I guess.  It is work, really, but it is effective.  

Engaging my Shaman vibe.  

I will take it easy today.  No pressure to do anything.  I may try to finish two rolls of film that I haven't been able to finish up all week and get them developed.  I may work on the never going to happen website I keep telling myself I need to have.  Maybe I'll look for some hippie paraphernalia, charms and bracelets and the like, to make me groovy.  As I write, I am wearing a grey cashmere cardigan I was given years ago.  When I was younger, I always enjoyed wearing old man norm core clothing.  I thought it was fun and hip.  Now. . . I just look like an old guy wearing a cardigan.  Oy!  

But the damn thing is for sure comfortable and warm.  

O.K.  I need to get started planning my healthy life.   There is food to be bought, sage to be burned, candles to light, and trinkets to find.  Let's live softly this holiday weekend as in a morning sunrise.  

The photo is my mother, aged fifteen.  Love.