Today I mailed out some poems to a university poetry contest for poets over 50. I’ve been procrastinating for a month, trying to decide if I should do it or not. The deadline is March 15, so if I was going to do it, they had to go in the mail today. Maybe mailing them on my birthday will bring me luck.
Then there’s the other side of the coin.
I haven’t been lucky with some of my weblogger friends who have tried to leave comments on my weblog but are blocked. b!X says that I seem to have blacklisted anything that comes from blogspot.com. I probably wreaked a lot more havoc with my blacklisting than that; he’s trying to figure it out. Bleh.
And I left my mom home to made a quick run over the the little post office in the mall so that I could mail in the poetry by Priority Mail. Mall customers are not supposed to use the post office parking spaces, but it was snowing, so of course people did (the post office was almost empty but the parking spaces were full up) so I kind of created an extra space next to the last car and was in and out in just about five minutes. Of course, the security patrol left a warning sticker on my car. That pissed me off, so I just mailed the Security Office a pissed off letter, the warning sticker, and my receipt from the post office. It probably won’t do any good, but it made me feel better.
What really made me feel better was a message on my phone left by my 2.5 years old granson while I was out. “Happy Birthday, Grammy,” squealed his little-boy voice. “I love you.”
And then I got a call from a friend whom I’ve known for 40 years. Our paths cross periodically. She didn’t know it was my birthday and called just to check in. We’re going to see “Aviator” tomorrow and catch some dinner. She reminded me of how, twenty years ago, it was I who called around and rounded people up to go out and party. So much of who I am has faded into the past. At least for now. And at least for now I have friends who continue to return my past favors.
And I made myself a chocolate cream pie with Oreo cookie crust.
The good always seems to more than balance the bad.

65.
I’ve got my Medicare card, but it still doesn’t seem possible. How could I be that old? I watch some middle-aged couple demonstrating basic ballroom steps on my public TV station and think how much I loved dancing and how much I’d like to get back into that someday.
Someday? How many days for ballroom dancing do I think I have left? And first, I’d have to drop the 20 pounds I put on over the past three years of taking care of my mother and turning to tasty food as my one consistent sensual comfort.
I went out yesterday and had lunch with a couple whom I’ve known snce college, but, as my mom continues to slip away, I’ll have even fewer opportunities than I have now to indulge is freedom and comfort. I have to believe, however, that I will have another life to create for myself when she’s no longer around. She’s already 89. Chances are that I’ll live to at least that age. Hell, Chita Rivera is in her seventies and still going strong on the dance floor. Well, I’d still have to lose at least those 20 extra pounds.
On every birthday since I started blogging in 2002,I’ve posted a photo of myself. I started blogging about the same time my mother began to become more dependent on me. She changed. I changed.

So, I was born on March 11, 1940 at 3:42 a.m. My early birthdays were big parties with lots of friends and relatives. We were a part of a large extended family. Yesterday, my mother unearthed this photo from my seventh birthday:

There will be no party for me today. I’ll take my 92 year old neighbor on our usual Friday grocery run. Maybe I’ll rent a video. Pick up some kind of special dessert.