"Is It My Birthday Yet?"

Wednesday, Apr. 07, 2004 - 6:49 a.m.

Today is my thirty-ninth birthday.

As is traditional here, John has promised to hand me the remote control and not grab it back. He's also promised to sit quietly and watch any television programs with me that I wish to see -- and as an extra added bonus, he said he won't yell back at the television when the news is on.

Between you and me, I think his head will explode, but his heart is in the right place.

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I made a list last year of some things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was forty. I got a couple of them done; I'm reading music again, sorta kinda, and I travelled east, although not by train. And thanks to Jamie Lord, I now own a copy of the movie 'Deathtrap'.

It's interesting what's happened in a year. Let's see what this year brings.

Go me.

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The most memorable birthday I ever had took place in 1989 at the Canadian / Idaho border; the fellow I was married to at the time, Michael Winderman, wanted to take me to Cranbrook, British Columbia for a trip to Overwaitea Foods, which was an awesome supermarket. We wanted Nielsen's chocolate, and Soda Mousse, which is creme soda, except in Canada it's pink, not brown like it is here in the USA.

It was a beautiful day; we each had on very lightweight jackets, which were both black. And the glare of the sun on the remaining snow forced us to wear sunglasses. So we looked Dark and Foreboding. We also had a mix cassette in the player of a bunch of stuff Mike had taped from the MuchMusic channel.

The border guard stopped us to check for incoming produce, and when he asked if we had any firearms, we glanced at each other at the utter ridiculousness of the question, and said no.

Just then, a song came on the mix tape -- "God Save The Queen" by the Sex Pistols.

The guard was not amused. "Ookay, oot of the car," he said. He took our IDs, and much to our chagrin, he proceeded to dismantle our SUV practically down to the rims of the tires, looking for the contraband that surely must exist in the vehicle of two hooligans like us.

When he was done, and after the damn dog was done sniffing around, he handed our IDs back to us and walked back into his booth. No 'sorry', and no assistance getting the car seats reassembled or the spare tire back in the trunk. And not even a 'happy birthday' to me, either.

It took us awhile to get everything back together, but after we did, and got back on the road, and got into the city, and got into the store where the candy was, everything was better. :)

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I was born on April 7th, 1965, in Marysville California, at 6:49 in the morning. My mother always told me that I was the reason her sleep patterns never were normal again, but I don't think that was a valid excuse after I'd been moved out of the house for ten years.

The night before my fourth birthday, my mom and dad told me how early in the day I had been born, and I understood the concept quite well. "You mean it's not my birthday until almost seven in the morning?" I finally said. "That's right," they said, and pointed at the clock. We'd just had dinner and I was getting set for my bath. Never missing an Educational Opportunity, my dad said "How many more hours until your birthday, hon?" and I looked, and counted and said "Eleven!"

The next morning, while it was still full dark outside, I slipped out of bed, went into my parents' room, and leaned down and quietly asked my father, "Dad? Is it my birthday yet?"... He awoke with a jolt, and peered owlishly at the clock, which read 3:55 a.m. "Not yet, dear. Go back to bed," he managed to say before he dropped back to sleep.

So, after I moved away from home, a tradition began.

Every April 7th, at 6:49 in the morning, I'd call home and ask the question "Is it my birthday yet?"... after the first year, I didn't wake them up when I placed that call; Mom always manned the phone. Sometimes she'd have something silly to play through the telephone for me, and other times I could simply hear her 'morning sounds' in the background; the pouring coffee, or the flick of the lighter for her morning's first cigarette.

My mother died in March of 1995; when I decided to go ahead and place the call to my father the following month, he'd been awake and ready to receive the call. Somehow, he just knew I would.

My father died in 2002, and my last grandmother passed in 2003.

There's nobody left to call now ...so I'm pestering you.

I hope you don't mind.

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