Sixty-three years ago today, my mom had just put a roast in the oven, when the bun decided to come out instead. The day was as hot and sticky as a cinnamon bun; it was Dominion Day as they used to call it, and Vera was irritated that baby Rosalie had ruined her holiday. It was the first time, and it definitely wasn't the last.
Even though I was actually born on July 2nd, not the real holiday, the grand day was being celebrated on my birthday because it was a Monday. I got a kick out of that. The government moved the holiday in my honour.
That was the law back then, to celebrate it on a Monday so people could get a three day weekend. Not like today, when Canadians celebrate what is now called Canada Day on whatever random day it falls on.
Like a Wednesday, or worse, a Tuesday.
That seems so wrong.
In 1956, because it was a holiday, my dad was probably in the pub hoisting a few when he got called to the bar. Vera always knew where to find him. He was either under a car working, or at the Mansion House telling war stories.
Wifey on the phone. Get yer ass home, buddy, she's about to blow.
Being born on a summer holiday was both a blessing and a curse. Until the government changed it, I always had the day off. Trouble was, everybody was working or on holidays so I didn't have birthday parties. In other words, my mom never threw me a party because she knew nobody would come.
That made me sad, so a lot of birthdays, I had headaches or stomach aches. It probably explains why I always throw my own parties because I want to make sure people show up.
Anyway, that's Peptobismal under the bridge.
I've come a long way in 63 years. I'm a mother, a grandmother, a wife, sister, friend. I cherish every relationship that has lasted. I have been so incredibly lucky to have had so many experiences that I will look back on when I'm old and grey, and smile. In bed with Thor and the Imps. Backstage at the Bluesfest. Watching the changing of the guard from my perch in the Prime Minister's Office. Winning club championships in tennis. Birthing three kids who still love me today. Meeting Scott. Loving dogs. Helping a good friend cross the Rainbow Bridge.
Like everybody, I've had my challenges, and still do. I've learned lessons from each and every disappointment. I've made so many mistakes, my life could be a country song, but I've also done a lot of good in the world. June Callwood would be proud of me.
So I'm good. Thanks for asking.
This is an incredible age to be. All the shit is behind you, and you understand the importance of not sweating the small stuff. You realize you no longer have a future, you have a window. You need to jump out of that window and try to make a difference in your life, in the life of someone else.
At 63, work is a job. Playtime is what it's really about. Buy that dress. Wear that colour that looks terrible on you. Twirl while you still can.
Sure people will think you're nuts.
That's what makes old age fun. You can say anything and get away with it.
Trump is a douche. Andrew Scheer is a baby douche. Shut up about the carbon tax!
I'm looking forward to old age.
As an oldster, you're lucky. They can lock you up in a home, but you have Wifi! You have multiple platforms to vent, a million channels that share your opinions.
If you don't like what somebody says, you can mute them, block them, or dispatch them into the ether. If you like to argue, there's Twitter where you can troll, chide or meme.
Ahahaha. (Not that I recommend it.)
If you're a woman, the hormones have finally died down, and nobody judges if man and wife no longer share a matrimonial bed. Just tell them it's the snoring. Nobody asks any questions.
Nobody wants to imagine two flabby fat asses, boobs a kimbo, balls hanging low like a continental soldier. Blech.
But you can do it, if that's your jazz, have at it. Just take your pill.
And lock the door.
And people will drive you places, give you discounts, and serve you cake.
The cool crowd will reject all that. They don't like labels. Age is just a number. They invest in electric cars, celery futures, and ortho Nikes.
Florida? Not us, we're at Whistler, with sun screen.
We prefer our skin smooth, not leather.
The cool folks still play pickup hockey, run marathons, and smoke doobies. They go to Bluesfest without bras, and build decks on the family cottage.
Please, people, get over yourselves.
Don't be surprised when the Grim Reaper comes calling. That is an appointment none of us can prepare for, and none of us can escape, no matter how much money we have, and how many stock options we own. That's where the road levels.
Except for the relatives, the ones that get rich off your entitled ass.
So have that chocolate cake, use the good dishes, buy a vibrator any size you prefer.
Me, my prediction is I'll remain pretty lame in my Third Act.
I will sit in my comfy chair and write and watch CNN. Maybe I'll go to the gym. Maybe I'll find the perfect job, or gig, or book contract.
If I don't, I don't care. I've got nothing to prove. What's done is done. What's past is past.
If. you don't like the narrative, just change the channel.
I will still love sitting in the backyard watching the dogs wrestle like a couple of Sumos. It's a small life, but it's significant to me. I'm a lover of life, dogs, kids, one guy who always makes me barbecue on the grill.
I still love the perfect margarita and red wine. I've learned that booze is like good music, it needs to be experienced in moderation, and at a lower the volume.
Okay, I'll just do the best I can.
So happy birthday to me.
And one question, loyal readers. I know you love me, but will you still love me when I'm 64?
Pardon the credits, I love this.
Even though I was actually born on July 2nd, not the real holiday, the grand day was being celebrated on my birthday because it was a Monday. I got a kick out of that. The government moved the holiday in my honour.
That was the law back then, to celebrate it on a Monday so people could get a three day weekend. Not like today, when Canadians celebrate what is now called Canada Day on whatever random day it falls on.
Like a Wednesday, or worse, a Tuesday.
That seems so wrong.
In 1956, because it was a holiday, my dad was probably in the pub hoisting a few when he got called to the bar. Vera always knew where to find him. He was either under a car working, or at the Mansion House telling war stories.
Wifey on the phone. Get yer ass home, buddy, she's about to blow.
Being born on a summer holiday was both a blessing and a curse. Until the government changed it, I always had the day off. Trouble was, everybody was working or on holidays so I didn't have birthday parties. In other words, my mom never threw me a party because she knew nobody would come.
That made me sad, so a lot of birthdays, I had headaches or stomach aches. It probably explains why I always throw my own parties because I want to make sure people show up.
Anyway, that's Peptobismal under the bridge.
I've come a long way in 63 years. I'm a mother, a grandmother, a wife, sister, friend. I cherish every relationship that has lasted. I have been so incredibly lucky to have had so many experiences that I will look back on when I'm old and grey, and smile. In bed with Thor and the Imps. Backstage at the Bluesfest. Watching the changing of the guard from my perch in the Prime Minister's Office. Winning club championships in tennis. Birthing three kids who still love me today. Meeting Scott. Loving dogs. Helping a good friend cross the Rainbow Bridge.
Like everybody, I've had my challenges, and still do. I've learned lessons from each and every disappointment. I've made so many mistakes, my life could be a country song, but I've also done a lot of good in the world. June Callwood would be proud of me.
So I'm good. Thanks for asking.
This is an incredible age to be. All the shit is behind you, and you understand the importance of not sweating the small stuff. You realize you no longer have a future, you have a window. You need to jump out of that window and try to make a difference in your life, in the life of someone else.
At 63, work is a job. Playtime is what it's really about. Buy that dress. Wear that colour that looks terrible on you. Twirl while you still can.
Sure people will think you're nuts.
That's what makes old age fun. You can say anything and get away with it.
Trump is a douche. Andrew Scheer is a baby douche. Shut up about the carbon tax!
I'm looking forward to old age.
As an oldster, you're lucky. They can lock you up in a home, but you have Wifi! You have multiple platforms to vent, a million channels that share your opinions.
If you don't like what somebody says, you can mute them, block them, or dispatch them into the ether. If you like to argue, there's Twitter where you can troll, chide or meme.
Ahahaha. (Not that I recommend it.)
If you're a woman, the hormones have finally died down, and nobody judges if man and wife no longer share a matrimonial bed. Just tell them it's the snoring. Nobody asks any questions.
Nobody wants to imagine two flabby fat asses, boobs a kimbo, balls hanging low like a continental soldier. Blech.
But you can do it, if that's your jazz, have at it. Just take your pill.
And lock the door.
And people will drive you places, give you discounts, and serve you cake.
The cool crowd will reject all that. They don't like labels. Age is just a number. They invest in electric cars, celery futures, and ortho Nikes.
Florida? Not us, we're at Whistler, with sun screen.
We prefer our skin smooth, not leather.
The cool folks still play pickup hockey, run marathons, and smoke doobies. They go to Bluesfest without bras, and build decks on the family cottage.
Please, people, get over yourselves.
Don't be surprised when the Grim Reaper comes calling. That is an appointment none of us can prepare for, and none of us can escape, no matter how much money we have, and how many stock options we own. That's where the road levels.
Except for the relatives, the ones that get rich off your entitled ass.
So have that chocolate cake, use the good dishes, buy a vibrator any size you prefer.
Me, my prediction is I'll remain pretty lame in my Third Act.
I will sit in my comfy chair and write and watch CNN. Maybe I'll go to the gym. Maybe I'll find the perfect job, or gig, or book contract.
If I don't, I don't care. I've got nothing to prove. What's done is done. What's past is past.
If. you don't like the narrative, just change the channel.
I will still love sitting in the backyard watching the dogs wrestle like a couple of Sumos. It's a small life, but it's significant to me. I'm a lover of life, dogs, kids, one guy who always makes me barbecue on the grill.
I still love the perfect margarita and red wine. I've learned that booze is like good music, it needs to be experienced in moderation, and at a lower the volume.
Okay, I'll just do the best I can.
So happy birthday to me.
And one question, loyal readers. I know you love me, but will you still love me when I'm 64?
Pardon the credits, I love this.
Beautiful! You write good! I can tell you 64 ain't bad, neither is 65 so far but it's only been a week. You have the right attitude, girl. Keep on doin' what you're doin'!
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