So last week I had another birthday, my fifty-fifth. And no, I'm not fishing for comments wishing me many happy returns of the day, in fact, I'm uncomfortable with birthday attention in general. The mailman brought three birthday cards: from my sister, my step-mom, and my insurance man. I guess if I had a significant other I'd appreciate a nice dinner out but, as I do not, I'd just as soon let the passing of another year go unnoticed. I don't mind getting older, particularly--it beats the alternative, as they say--but it reminds me that time is marching on and I probably should have made a little more hay while the sun shone, so to speak.
|It's just a little smaller than it looked in the ad, but I don't mind.|
|I'm extremely grateful; I'm terribly proud that he's doing well enough to indulge me; but I'm sure that besides wanting to order new toys from Best Buy he's probably a little embarrassed that |
My mother has a rusty old electric wall heater from the fifties that provides all her heat. It costs hundreds of dollars every month to run because it is so inefficient. So my sister and I picked out a sleek new oil-filled radiator which fits neatly on the hearth and will keep her house cozy for a fraction of the cost of the wall heater. The first time I visited to check on the radiator she had unplugged it, and the last time I went there she had dragged it into the garage because it was an eyesore that was in her way and she liked her old heater better.