40th Birthday -- Unplugged, Unslinged, Unplanned

[Last year, on Saturday, January 5, the day before my 39th birthday, my brother's and my friend, Pete, had a party. It was a get together with a bunch of my brother's friends and their girlfriends and wives, people I've known for years and years. I had no plans for my birthday, not because no one had offered, but because I didn't want any. I'd just had surgery, and for other reasons unrelated to birthdays (you know how I like to stay on topic and not digress in endless parentheticals), I wasn't in "the mood" for having a birthday. But there was this party, and my brother and sister-in-law encouraged me to go, so I did. I'm glad I did. It was fun. Even though it wasn't a birthday party, it was the night before my birthday, and I was at a party. I wasn't alone, and therefore, I wasn't sitting somewhere thinking how dumb it was that even though I could be with people, I'd made a choice to sit by myself on my birthday for no reason. (There was a reason, but that's a whole other thing, and again, I'm respecting how you don't need me going off on tangents.)

At midnight, I turned 39. A wink from my sister-in-law and a couple of girlfriends who knew -- that was nice. I felt happy. Content. It was the exact right amount of birthday acknowledgment I could handle that day, and if every birthday could be that way, I think I would like it. But this year, my birthday is on a Monday, and also, I don't live in Chicago, so there are some considerable barriers to someone just happening to have a non-birthday party this Sunday in Nashville.

I've decided to appeal to Pete, who, I'm sure, would probably want to have a party 3 days after New Year's Eve anyway. Lots of people like to go to parties the very first weekend after all the holidays are over. That's why the timing of my birthday is so awesome to begin with... it's usually the first day back to school or "real" work (not "In-between-holidays-I'm-just-here-because-I-have-to-be-but-really-I'm-spending-8-hours-looking-at-everyone's-Facebook-pictures-from-Christmas-and-Jesus!-Did-she-ACTUALLY-wear-THAT-OUT-to-a-New-Year's-Eve-Party?-Why?-Also,-should-I-send-an-email-to-my-friend-asking-her-to-take-down-this-picture-of-me-where-my-muffin-top-is-just-like-REALLY-prominent,-or-would-that-seem-vain?" work.) It's the time of year when NO one really wants to be ANYWHERE except home in bed. Including me. Which is why I never want to celebrate my birthday. But there's still the hope of Pete. For some reason he did it last year. Why not this year?]

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So, uh, Peter, are you going to unknowingly have a birthday party for me again this year? Saturday works... if the lovely Gigi is free to clean up your place and make it look like a caveman doesn't live there. If she doesn't want to clean up, that's fine too. As for food, I don't need anything fancy. Just cook up those 20 boxes of Macaroni & Cheese that we made fun of you for having after we opened all the cabinets in your kitchen.

This year I'm in pretty decent shape for a party, unlike last year, when I was recovering from shoulder surgery and wearing a comically gigantic sling:

January 2013
The sling and the huge pillow in between my forearm and torso hold my arm in place, but they do not serve any protective function for the part of the body where the surgery happened. While it LOOKS like the elbow and forearm are in distress, the shoulder, with six incisions in front and back, is totally exposed. It must be human nature to slap someone on the shoulder when you see her wearing such a wild contraption (it had REFLECTORS ON IT!), and it makes perfect sense that one would deduce that the person wearing it had met with some kind of elbow misfortune.

It works really well as cup-holder.

Last year at your party, EACH and EVERY PERSON who entered the party, said hello to me and then inexplicably punched me RIGHT in the stitches, causing me to spit-take Diet Coke in agony while smiling and saying, "No, no, I'm fine. It's OK." Then I moved into an empty area of the house that I'd had to seek out for just this purpose, pressed my face into the wall, and screamed noiselessly for 2 minutes. Then I came back out to the party, acting like everything was cool, even though I suspected that after the fifth or sixth jab, and two of them from like REALLY BIG DUDES (you know exactly who I'm talking about), at least ONE of those stitches HAD to have popped open. But I wasn't going to complain or be a baby about it. If people want to greet me by punching me, that's OK. I used to have cats, so I understand that friendliness can be expressed in a variety of ways that don't seem friendly at all.

So after I caught my breath and adjusted my sling, I came back into the room, and I positioned myself strategically so that no one could get near my shoulder. But no matter WHAT I did, people just kept finding me and punching THAT ONE SHOULDER. You know I'm not making this up, Pete. And I think I was a really good sport about it.

The whole point is, my shoulder is fine and totally punch-able now. In fact, I INVITE you to punch it! Accordingly, because I'm able-bodied this year, there should be dancing, preferably to music that you've written... perhaps with me in mind? I'm not asking for much, just maybe a 10-track album entitled "Jules -- The Entire Inspiration for My Life of Music"? That seems reasonable. Thanks in advance.

(Side note to my sister-in-law, and Mindy, and Loradona: Like last year, I'm again requesting that you not tell anyone at Pete's party that it's my birthday, because, like last year, I don't want anyone to know it's my birthday, even though I kept accidentally mentioning it... but only for the purpose of IMPLORING you not to tell anyone, which you didn't, and I really appreciate that.)

Here's Your Fucking Christmas Card

I love getting Christmas cards. LOVE them. I especially love the newsy letters, and of course I love getting pictures of all the little kids. I like it even better when my friends include themselves in the pictures, because, let's face it, little kids are cute as hell, but nothing beats seeing how fat your friends got this year.

Everyone knows that women only include themselves in the Christmas card photo if they are looking fabulous, so if you send me a card and you're not in the picture, I know what's going on. I know you probably sit on the sofa eating Cheetos and weeping while you watch The Biggest Loser. That's OK. But don't think you're pulling one over on me, girlfriend. I can read the code. Instead of sending a picture of your beautiful children, why don't you make a copy of your Weight Watchers progress card that shows you haven't weighed in or been to a meeting since last February? Send that around.

Also, mailing a picture of just your children to a husband-less, child-less, boyfriend-less woman is kind of uppity. Why not send me a picture of just your big house, or better yet, cut the crap and email me a PDF of your most recent joint checking account statement? "Merry Christmas, loser. Look at the shit we have that you don't. Suck it!"

Maybe I'll send out pictures of myself doing all the things you can't do. It must be such a drag, the being married, having a built-in friend, stability. YOU didn't get to spend half of 2013 living in a Prius. I don't MEAN to rub it in, but it's so hard, when you have a life like mine. And I already do that on Facebook, so let's get back to the Christmas cards...

I look fabulous again this year, but I don't have a husband or children, and single women don't typically send pictures of themselves as Christmas card photos, which is why, every year in September or October, I start to think how funny it would be if I sent a Christmas card photo of myself with my pets. It would be a really close-up picture of me and my dog. In past years, I had a dog and TWO cats, and if I got dressed up, like, make up and a blow out, a tasteful blouse, the whole thing, and sent you a picture of myself with these animals crawling all over me, and you opened that shit up, would it not cause you to say to your spouse: "Is Jules really sending us a picture of herself and her pets?  Is this a joke or isn't it?" And that would be funny, the not knowing.

Also, it would not make any sense, as I do not even have a dog.

But then it's two days before Christmas, and I realize that I never did go to Sears or Olan Mills to get this serious/hilarious picture taken, so then I have to decide whether to send regular boring Christmas cards. When so many people send pictures with their cards and now most people just send pictures and do not even write anything on the cards, you realize that you're kind of a fool if you hand-write all your Christmas cards. People only want to see the pictures anyway, so if you send a card with no pictures, it's not going to win any awards. And, as you know, I like to win awards.

I have considered writing a holiday newsletter, but every year when I start to put that together, I realize that most of the "news" I'd have to share would not be very Christmas-y: "I got laid off. I have no health insurance. My mental health is tenuous. I'm hanging on by a shoestring. The 12-step program really helps. Merry Christmas?" I don't want to send a letter that would upset people.

Or do I?

I've recently been informed by my sister-in-law, and via Facebook nonetheless, that I can't even wear my favorite Christmas hat this year, because it freaks my nephew out. Screw you, Parker. Your poopy diapers freak me out, but I don't get all whiny about it. Just let me wear my damn dancing/singing hat. It isn't even my hat. I just wear it better than anyone else, and you know that, Parker. Just because you're the baby doesn't mean you have to hog ALL the attention. Don't be a hater. Christmastime is crummy enough when no one gives you any toys, and everyone is constantly haranguing you about how you're too gorgeous to have ANY fathomable reason to STILL be single. So I don't feel like writing Christmas cards this year, and I'm not going to try to do something shocking with photos or a newsletter.

But here is a Christmas card that I really DID send in 2001. I printed it and put it in the actual mail, and some of you received it. There are, of course, some updates to this Christmas card from many years ago: (1) My brother has been married for 7 years and has two beautiful sons, so my parents' dream of becoming grandparents has been realized through no effort on my part at all; (2) I no longer practice law, which is part of the reason I really did live in a Prius for longer than anyone should live in a Prius; (3) Dad retired in December, but we still don't know where he lives or what he was doing during the 40 years prior; (4) the Easter Egg thing is still very real; (5) Grandpa died.

***

[While we were on vacation in Mexico, my mother announced that she was torn as to whether she ought to send out her usual holiday newsletter, or hand-write the Christmas cards this year. Since she typically sends out the newsletter without first consulting us, inevitably misstating and embellishing the facts, Michael and I attempted to thwart the newsletter idea by pointing out that neither of us accomplished anything or had anything good happen to us this year. Mom got pissed, threw up her hands, and said, "Fine! Why don't you just write the letter." Bad call, Ma, for we took up the challenge. Ergo, was born, on a cocktail napkin and over a great deal of alcohol]:

The Incredibly Morose 2001 D- Holiday Letter

Hiya! Another year, another 365 days of the same old crap, and once again, the kids have proven themselves to be un-marriageable, giving us zero grandchildren and zero hope of a wedding (unless Mike knocks up some hooker, which is unlikely, since he doesn't even have the wherewithal to sleep around like a normal, good-lookin' guy in his mid-twenties).

Julie managed to bamboozle a guy into paying for exactly one meal during the year 2001. We’ll see if he calls. (Don’t hold your breath.)

Julie set Michael up on a date, which was a miserable failure. If we've said it before, we'll say it again: Michael is unlucky in love.

Tom, for the 17th year in a row, did not live within a 300-mile radius of his wife and children. He worked in Seattle for the first half of the year (incidentally, Tom wishes us to note that he is a Seattle Earthquake 2001! survivor), and currently works in Indianapolis. As usual, who cares? Keep sending the checks home, Dad.

Paula, having over-committed to numerous book groups over the course of the year, finally had to prioritize her book-reading obligations.  She pared down from three book groups to just one, and stunned the Naperville book-reading community by standing up at Mary Jane Doody’s house and announcing, “Enough is enough! I can only read ONE book a month. Not three, not even two. I will NOT read Bee Season AND A Prayer for Owen Meany at the same time. I CANNOT! I WILL NOT!”

Michael got a hair cut!!

We have NO grandchildren.

Julie, who is still clinging lifelessly to her job as an “attorney”, performed approximately no legal services for anyone this year. We don't expect her to be employed come February. (Should we have saved that for next year's letter?)

Incidentally, about Paula, we all acknowledge that she is a wonderful mother and that she did nothing but scrimp and sacrifice in the raising of the children and taking care of Tom all those years, but none of us feels too bad for Paula now, as her lifestyle consists of shopping for over-sized jars of shrimp cocktail and bags of frozen dinner rolls at Sam's, planning her and Tom’s quarterly two-week vacation, going on vacation, and letting the cleaning lady in.

Tom swept the 2001 D- Easter Egg Decorating Contest, dominating such categories as "most stupidest", "most dumbest", and "most jerky". (While this tidbit may seem like a joke, rest assured, it is not.)

Julie ran the Chicago Marathon in October.  She has only 8 of 10 toenails still attached to her feet and wakes up screaming in the night complaining of phantom limb pain.

Grandma died.

Our 26- and 27-year old children are on vacation with us as we write this, so is it any wonder that we have no grandchildren?

Merry Christmas.