So I have just returned from my birthday dinner. On the way we stopped at an auto shop to get a new brake light for Carol’s Honda, since she had been cited for not having one. I am bloated and somewhat groggy because we went to the nearby Sizzler that was held up by some crazy person a few months back. I mean who would hold up a Sizzler: hand over all your steak!
So far it’s been a good birthday because I have not hit anything or banged my head against the wall or thrown anything. I haven’t even cursed out the TV. But then I haven’t watched it yet.
Yesterday I started cursing out this while guy seated in my car. I wanted to turn right as did all of the five cars in front of me. But here comes this pedestrian and the first person in line being ultra polite I guess didn’t cut in front of the guy, so we had to all had to sit and watch this jerk amble, nay saunter, across the walk with an ipod wire sticking out of one ear and his cell phone plastered to the other yakking away as if there was nobody in the damn world other than his holiness. And in the middle of the road he pauses to let fly a “snot rocket.” Not only was he slow; he was damn disgusting. I wanted to rip out his heart out and shove it down his throat!
But so far today, I have thrown no fits nor have I felt particularly fit to be tied. I was annoyed at the club when the guy at the front desk, whom I don’t know from Adam (not like my student who works there) wished me a happy birthday because somehow when he typed in my ID number the computer told him it was my birthday—the personal impersonal touch you know—and so he said, happy birthday but without much conviction, I must say.
And the only workout machine left was the oldest one of all and it doesn’t ask you your age or weight, so I didn’t get to punch in 62, as I had planned and was looking forward to doing.
At the Sizzler I said I was a senior and wanted to order off the senile menu which I did, getting a 6 ounce steak and a baked potato with every damn thing in the world on it, what with real butter and sour cream, and then there is the salad bar where I had real Thousand Island dressing on a salad with real bits of bacon sprinkled on top as well as some sort of macaroni. I used to make my own Thousand Island dressing years ago, by throwing some real mayonnaise into a bowl and mixing in some catsup to get the right sort of color and then I would pour in sweet pickle juice and pepper it up a little. Now I used your damn balsamic vinegar something or other, one serving of which is 15 calories.
When I ate my baked potato I also ate the skin. I was told that the skin was the most nutritious part, so I always ate it and it helped to fill me up besides. I don’t understand it when people don’t eat the skin of the potato. That’s the best part. And when I had my fried chicken leg—back in the old days—I would always eat that crunchy part at the end of the leg and then I would bite off the end of the leg and suck out the marrow—because I was told that was the best part and it helped to fill me up too.
But now I am all growed up and have my own money and go to the Sizzler and eat till I am bloated—my god they even have onion rings!—and all for 8.99 off the senior senile menu.
If I remembered any of my other birthdays—which I don’t—I would probably rank this one in the top five, I guess.
Thanks to all who have sent me birthday best wishes. I appreciated them.