If my mother was still here …

… she’d be excited as hell today. It’s her birthday, and she loved celebrating them. She loved celebrating anyone’s, but she’d start anticipating hers weeks in advance.

It wasn’t about the gifts. She never wanted gifts. She did like getting cards, the more mushy the better. She saved them all, every last one. She wasn’t a hoarder at all — quite the opposite in fact — but she kept cards.

But mostly for her, her love of birthdays was about the cake and blowing out the candles — and the

Let there be cake and lots of it …

Last Saturday was my mom’s birthday. Unfortunately she’s not around so I couldn’t celebrate with her. She loved birthdays. Unlike most women who, once they’ve turned 30 or 35, don’t admit to how old they are, my mother told you before you asked.

She was proud of it and gloried in the fact that no one ever believed her because she looked, and acted, so much younger. She was a spunky one, full of piss and vinegar. She didn’t mince words, that one.

But she was also sentimental and her favourite cards, for all occasions, were the mushy ones. And she saved them all. After she died I think I found every birthday,

What really matters …

Sometimes it feels like we spend so much time on the things that don’t matter we lose sight of the things that do. I was reminded of what really counts last Sunday.

It was my birthday. I don’t make a big deal of it. I never did. My mother used to tell me that even as a child I

What’s the big deal?

We’re just days into the New Year and here I am, complaining.  Well, not really complaining.  It’s more like ‘wondering’.  Or making an observation.  Or questioning.  I’m confused, is all.  For the life of me I can’t figure out why we make such a big deal out of New Year’s Eve.  Okay, okay, okay, I get the significance of beginning a new year.  Truly I do.  But why the insistence on wearing silly hats and cranking noisemakers and watching balls drop and drinking ourselves into oblivion?  What’s the point of all that?

Speaking strictly for myself, I’ve never liked New Year’s Eve.  In fact, I kinda loathe it.  Too many people trying way to hard to have a good time.  Way too many people who can’t hold their liquor getting way too drunk.  Drunk to the point of crying, drunk to the point of sharing the most intimate details of their lives with virtual strangers, drunk to the point of making passes at their best friends’ husbands (or vice versa), drunk to the point of passing out or, even worse,

Day 333. Yankee Doodle

Yesterday was Independence Day in the U.S.  In fact, it was on July 4, 1776 that the Declaration of Independence was apparently signed.  I say “apparently” because the date has been disputed for years and years and years and years.  And years and years.

All that matters is, regardless of the day, the U.S. was no longer under British rule.

I’ve always enjoyed the celebrations.  I like the patriotism.  The pomp.  The parades.  The fireworks.  The partying.  The hotdogs.  The beer.  All of it.

From the time I was nine, I went to a summer camp in Vermont.  In Poultney, Vermont to be precise.  A pretty, little town, on Lake Champlain.  Not far from Montreal.  Maybe a couple of hours, max.

Camp Kinni Kinnic.  An all-girls camp, it was owned by a judge of the juvenile court.  Aunt Jeanette, as we affectionately called her.  Her full name was Jeanette Brill.  She had a son, Herbert, who took it over when she

Day 306. You’re Invited …

Loved yesterday’s WordPress Daily Prompt: “Plan the ultimate celebration for the person you’re closest to, and tell us about it. Where is it? Who’s there? What’s served? What happens?

Quite a lot for me to think about. Not to mention a hell of a lot of planning and work.

After much deliberation, as it turns out, “the person I’m closest to” is myself. So I’m throwing a party for me. Reminds me of a Sex and the City episode when Carrie got fed up contributing to gift registries for all her friends.When they became engaged, or got married, or had kids, or bought homes, or were celebrating anniversaries.

So she decided to start a gift registry for herself. For no reason, other than to invite everyone she knew to contribute to her collection of Manolo Blahnik shoes. It’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll do that with my VISA bill. How do you think I’d do on Kickstarter? Isn’t that what crowd sourced funding is all about? Getting other

Day 124. Enjoy It!

Even as a child, I wasn’t crazy about my birthday. Unlike most kids, I was never wild with anticipation as THE day got closer and closer. Not even the prospect of gifts particularly excited me. Or parties. Or cake and ice cream. I have no clue why. Ridiculous, I know.

Maybe even at three years old I wasn’t crazy about the idea of time marching on. Who knows. Bet a therapist would have a field day with this one. All I know is, nothing’s changed.

Unlike my mother, who celebrated each and every birthday she had. Yes, she celebrated each and every year she was blessed with ‘living’. Not that she liked getting old. Staring her mortality square in the eye. She just didn’t dwell on it. What I’m about to say may sound like a fragrance commercial or a Hallmark card, but I’m saying it anyway. Because, in my mother’s case, it’s absolutely true (as anyone who knew her can confirm). It defined her and all she stood for:

She defied it. When she looked in the mirror she saw a woman much younger than she really was. She saw a woman with the spirit of a forty year old. And the energy. And the enthusiasm. A woman filled with the joyful anticipation of what each new day could bring. Would bring. Because she willed it so. She’d tell you how old she was, before you asked. To her it was an accomplishment to be proud of.

Vain as she was (and I don’t mean this in a bad way), she NEVER shied away from saying “I’m 75”. Or 80, or 84. I think she