MY FIRST
          PAIR OF NYLONS

How did I make it through 2013 without them? They're surprisingly sturdy, they haven't ripped or had any runs, they don't wrinkle, and they survived a tug-of-war with my dog Felon without losing shape.They're easily washed and quickly dried, and they can fit into a shoulder bag, backpack, or the smallest purse. Some of the newer patterns even glow in the dark, perfect for crossing streets on those pre-dawn walks of shame. One of my closest friends, Ron Brock, is the one who turned me onto them. Not many people know that he's as into it as he is. He even gave me my first pair from his personal collection.

RON AND I THE NIGHT WE
FIRST MET, 19 YEARS AGO.

I should stop at this point and clarify that I am not talking about a pair of nylon pantyhose. And the walk of shame I'm referring to isn't the one when you walk home with one high heel from a tranny sex party wearing nylons.
The shame I'm talking about is walking stoned from Safeway back to my apartment at 4 A.M. carrying two reusable nylon bags filled with munchies. These are the pair of bags Ron gave me, the same two that happen to have been his favorite ones he always used for his shopping. It was very generous of him considering how serious he is about the whole recycling issue, a fact about him that few people actually know.  

Believe me, I know, I'd rather be telling you about nylon hosiery and tranny sex parties, but that's not what 2014 is going to be about (OK, maybe a little). 2014 is going to be about these nylon bags that have changed my life. Well, my life as far as shopping goes.

NO, THIS IS NOT ME.
MY ASS IS HAIRIER.

The reason why I hadn't switched over to reusable bags sooner is because I hated all the clothe ones I had at home. Each one had odd length handles that didn't feel right in my hand or over my shoulder. Whenever I tried to pack one in my backpack, it would unfold, take up too much space, block everything else I was trying to get to, and would end up smelling like my gym clothes. I know these complaints are all silly and small but together it was enough to keep me from putting any of them into my backpack for the next day.

ONE OF THE NYLON BAGS
WITH THE DRAWSTRING 
AND A CLIP.

When  I told this to Ron a few weeks ago, he immediately went into his kitchen and came back with his fists turned down pointing towards me.
“ I think you're not going to have this problem anymore.” He flipped over his fists and showed me the two tiny nylon bags tightly rolled up in their self-contained, draw-string pouches. He opened one and showed me the size, then rolled it back up into itself.
" Wow, tiny to big, and without Viagra," I smiled, taking one in my hand. 
" They're yours now," Ron said, handing me the second one. "Happy Belated Hanukkah."

We were standing in front of his new recyclable Christmas tree, which was actually the first artificial one he ever had. Ron was known for his Christmas trees (and blow-jobs, so I'm told), so the decision was not an easy one. Choosing a tree that was artificial was a huge leap, but it suddenly made perfect sense to him environmentally and otherwise when he went tree shopping.

THE TWO ORNAMENTS I MADE OF ME DRESSED AS
 THE RABBI  AND THE FLYING NUN
 THAT HANG ON RON'S TREE EVERY YEAR
TRY TO CAPTURE THE RELIGIOUSNESS
OF  CHRISTMAS TIME.

RAB-BI

FLYING NUN

      










 "I think your Christmas tree just snickered when it heard Hanukkah," I said, looking suspiciously at the gorgeous, glowing tree. 

    Ron went over to the tree and pretended to pet it. "There there twinkling tree, don't tease the Jewish people. It's not their fault they got stuck with Hanukkah," he said in perfect Auntie Mame fashion (Rosalind Russel of course) which he did flawlessly, almost as if he was channeling Ms. Russell from beyond. She was his alter ego, especially at Christmas time, when he feels most festive. Ron doesn't have to worry about going overboard with gayness because he can't help but be masculine even when he is at his 'Mamest'. It's like watching the mash-up of Auntie Mame vs.The Marlboro Man. That's what makes his 'Mamish' outbreaks so entertaining. They happen spontaneously, sometimes when they are least expected and most needed. 

Where these Mamish outbreaks come from is a mystery. There must be a place somewhere in Ron Brock's brain that lights up brightly, a part that should be renamed the Mame Medulla. It's where Ron's ability comes from to memorize dialog and then repeat it with perfect intonation. It's a wonderful gift to have, like someone who never forgets a face or name. 
     "Tell your tree it can be recycled early, " I playfully warned. 
     "Don't listen innocent statuesque beauty, " Ron Mame'd, putting his hands on its sides to cover imaginary ears. "This is how those people behave at Christmas time" he paused, "bitter over all the beauty," dropping his voice dramatically low for 'those people' and then quickly raising it back up for Christmas.
   

      REAL LAUGHS ARE VERY HARD TO
CATCH ON CAMERA, BUT LUCKILY
THIS BIG ONE FROM A FEW YEARS BACK
  IS CAPTURED FOR US FOREVER.

Even though it was still mid December, I told Ron that my early New Years Resolution would be to always carry the two nylon bags in my backpack, especially when I go to Safeway. 2014 will mark my jump onto the sustainability bandwagon (only if it's made from at least 40% post-consumer waste), including my overdue divorce from the besieged brown paper grocery bag.

I am happy to report that since I started using the nylon bags three weeks ago, I haven't had to ask one checkout cashier for any Safeway bags. This means I haven't had to pay even one dime in fees from the BAG REDUCTION ORDINANCE, or BRO, passed by San Francisco's Board of Supervisors to stop shoppers like me from 'brown bagging'( putting purchases into brown paper shopping bags instead of reusable ones).

This also means that for three weeks I haven't had to say, 'two double bags please', a simple short sentence which for me has been a stuttering minefield. Around two months ago, the minefield exploded when a cashier who was new at Safeway asked me how many paper bags I wanted. It sent me into a stuttering tail-spin so horrifyingly long that the developmentally-slow Asian boy with low gums and small teeth who was bagging my groceries looked at me like I was retarded. 

The  Board  Of Supervisors  didn't take into account that they were forcing all stuttering shoppers to speak to cashiers more, which for some of us was the the greatest incentive of all to bring reusable bags. Not having to stutter  'two' or 'double' or 'bag' to a cashier  in front of a line of other shoppers is one of the unintended side benefits of my nylon bags. 

My two nylon friends are also bringing a final end to my planetary shame.
In San Francisco, people with reusable bags look at people who don't have reusable bags like non-smokers look at smokers. My environmental recklessness was being tallied up by the number of Safeway paper bags I was carrying. It bothered me that some people thought I didn't give a shit. I'm the guy who told my father at 8 years old not to throw his cigarettes out the car window, and I'm the guy who always finds old wrappers with wadded gum, crinkled unwanted receipts, and bottle caps that I put into my pockets instead of throwing on the ground.

I had lived through PeTA's anti-fur crusade up until my family's used fur business went bankrupt in the late 80's.The last thing I wanted was to be singled out again and 'tomatoed' in front of Safeway by  NOPE(Not One Paperbag Ever) or 'soiled' with dirt balls by TREE( Tree Revenge= Eat Earth).

Frankly, I would have deserved it for the amount of brown paper Safeway grocery bags I paid ten cents each for last year. When I confessed to Ron that I had quite an impressive collection of the paper bags amassed in my kitchen, he wisely pointed out that a lot of shoes or watches is called a collection, not brown shopping bags from Safeway. It can't be called a collection no matter how many I have. Unfortunately, it's one of those things that the more I have, the less impressive it is.  
"It sounds more like a landfill,” Ron said.

We both laughed as we tried to figure out what I could do with all the bags.
"Well how many do you really have?"

“I actually don't have the slightest idea how many. I go to Safeway 5 times a week at least and I always get everything double-bagged,” I shrugged my shoulders. “ There's a lot, believe me. They're crammed into every possible space in between the appliances and the counter tops. And now there starting to come up from behind the refrigerator.”
" Gary, that's bordering on hoarding, or at least pre-hoarding." 
" I call it stockpiling."

" I call it Bag Lady."

When I got home I immediately went into my kitchen and started counting. At 250 I stopped. There were more but it didn't matter. Ron was right.  At that point it was obvious that I had turned into a BLT, a BAG LADY TEMPORARILY.

I had to get rid of them but I didn't want to just throw them out in the recycle bin after keeping them for so long. I had to do something very special with these very plain brown paper bags...

           THE 'SAFEWAY BAGSPREAD'.             

     

I HAD A GOOD SLEEP BUT STILL WOKE UP
WITH TERRIBLE BAGS UNDER MY EYES

FELON, LOOKING LIKE HE WANTS TO
 COME UP AND PEE ON MY BAGSPREAD.

FELON SNIFFED EVERY BAG IN MY BAGSPREAD BY THE TIME HE WAS DONE.

THE BAGS ALSO MAKE VERY STYLISH

CURTAINS THAT CAN BLOCK OUT THE

SUNNIEST DAY.  

FOR THE NIGHTTIME, A PEEPHOLE IS

EASILY MADE IF YOU FEEL YOU NEED 

ONE AS A CONCERNED NEIGHBOR. 

MY EX , ALEX,  WISHING THAT HE WAS THE ONE
IN THE APARTMENT ACROSS THE STREET
 BLINDFOLDED BY TWO NAKED MEN.

The Smithsonian Museum didn't show enough interest in my Grocery Chic Home Decor, and neither did Safeway. If I held onto them until I was 200 hundred years old, they might be worth something considering that paper shopping bags  will eventually be outlawed completely. I had no space to store them,so I tried to take the bagspread and the curtain apart  but all the bags were ruined. I ended up having to throw them all away after all. That's when I realized  I don't have anything to hold my recycles in under my sink and carry them to the bin downstairs. Those Safeway bags were perfect for it.  Is there a black market where I can very discreetly get some?

ON THE GOOD SHIP LOTTAPOOP

 This past Friday night, I did what any 52 year old gay man would do--- I went to a costume party as Shirley Temple, tap shoes and all ( Actually I was Burley Temple, a much less lollipopish and much more hairy version of Shirley).
        It all started a week before at Graham and Paul's house from a conversation about the Grand Jury papers finally being made public from the JonBenet Ramsey case. This led to another conversation about child beauty pageants, which led to the topic of child stars, which led to Shirley Temple, which led to me impersonating Shirley Temple throwing a temper tantrum, which led to the birth of Burley Temple.
          Ahmed and Doug, two great guys who have an annual Halloween costume party, insisted that I come as Burley, which I scoffed at like I did every time they invited me. I hadn't done Halloween in over ten years, and had not been to a costume party at someone's house in thirty years. Graham and Paul wanted me to go too, and they  started daring me to do Burley in public. 
       " It's so easy compared to the old costumes," Graham prodded me. " All you have to do is stomp around and be a brat. That's what you do anyway."
        My ex-boyfriend, Drew, joined in the prodding, and promised he would dress-up and go to the party with me, which meant we could probably have sex after.
        "And I have old tap shoes you can borrow!" Drew said with pride, which only a gay man can do. 
        I actually started to picture it in my mind. Stomping around in tap shoes the whole night would be really funny. I thought about it for a few more minutes, then said I would do it. " But only if I'm allowed to be pouty, disagreeable, stubborn, throw temper tantrums and not talk to anybody there," I told all of them as I counted off each demand with my fingers. 

     Graham had played a big part in my more elaborate costumes so there was a special Halloween connection between us, on top of our very close 19 year friendship. He thought it was great for me to let Halloween back into my life and let that part of me come out again. He was so shocked that I was actually going to come out of Halloween retirement and go to a costume party that, at first, he didn't believe me. 

    I didn't completely believe I would do it either, until I found myself online later that night Googling 'Shirley Temple', which I can guarantee no other gay or straight man who was online on Saturday night at 1:00 AM was doing. 
     I realized I didn't know anything about Shirley except four things:

1. the drink.
2. the first line of 'On The Good Ship Lollipop', which is 'on the good ship Lollipop'. 
3. she became an ambassador with a hyphenated name. 
4. that she pissed off Mae West (who I love)  by being voted 'Most Popular Actress' three times in the 1930's.  

   First, I wanted to know whether Shirley Temple is still alive or not. This is usually considered to be one of those straightforward kind of questions, of the 'yes or no' variety. When I typed Is Shirley Temple dead? I quickly learned that 2013 was the wrong year to ask that question. It's a touchy subject, especially after Shirley Temple received a million condolences offering sympathy for her death that never happened: 

Shirley Temple death hoax spreads on Facebook

     Rumors of the actress’s alleged demise gained traction on Saturday after a ‘R.I.P.   Shirley Temple’ Facebook page attracted nearly one million of ‘likes’. Those who read the ‘About’ page were given a believable account of the American actress’s passing:“ Our beloved actress Shirley Temple has passed away.  She will be missed but not forgotten. Please show your sympathy and condolences by commenting on and liking this page.

                           AAAAA   THE OFFICIAL RESPONSE TO 
                                             R.I.P. Shirley Temple'

From what I'm gathering, this was not the first time that her death had been rumored. There seems to be a whole online controversy over it, and has become enough of a topic to generate it's own websites and search results:

• Dead or Alive? www.deadoraliveinfo.com/dead.nsf/tnames-nf/Temple+Shirley Use this page to find out if Shirley Temple is dead or alive. Very user friendly navigation and includes a search function and interactive quizzes.
• IS SHIRLEY TEMPLE DEAD OR ALIVE?!!!!!!en.mediamass.net/people/shirley-temple/deathhoax.html
• Shirley Temple Black Died‎ www.ask.com/Shirley+Temple+Black+Died‎ Search for Shirley Temple Black Died Look Up Quick Results on Ask.com
• Searches related to”is shirley temple dead?”is shirley temple still alive:

                   shirley temple dead 2011
                shirley temple dead 2009
                shirley temple dead 2013

               where does shirley temple live

 All of these rumors can't be because people want Shirley Temple dead. No one in the world would want Shirley Temple to die. It would be like wanting Santa Claus to die, if he was actually real. 

     People just want to be part of the great loss that her death will inevitably be. She's transcended stardom and has become almost an historical figure who is tied to America's hope and greatness. Shirley Temple is nothing less than a national treasure. The problem is that people like to bury their treasure.

       So far, the public has killed off poor Shirley three times. The first looks  like it happened in 2009, then again in 2011, and then Facebook last May. This phenomenon  should be given a name-----  Bury Shirley Early Syndrome. 

       The main symptom is believing that Shirley Temple is dead when she isn't.The worst thing that could happen would be for it to become an epidemic. It cause can mass premature mourning. People everywhere, believing rumors they hear about her death and starting different rumors themselves. It could become as well-known and widespread  as 6 Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon, except in this case it would be 6 Feet Under with Shirley Temple.

       It took almost an hour online for me to be absolutely certain that Shirley Temple wasn't dead. By that point, I was as so lost in Shirley Temple Land that I couldn't help listening over and over to the YouTube clip of her singing  'Good Ship Lollipop'. I played it so many times that I could have developed Diabetes. After the fifteenth time, I  started to revise it to suit Burley Temple until there was nothing sweet left about it ---
  ' On the good ship 

   Lollipop
   Its a sweet trip                          

  To the candy shop                       

Where bon-bon's play                

 On the sunny beach                  

 Of peppermint bay...'

HOW DO BON-BONS PLAY?
THESE ONES LOOK 
PRETTY LAZY TO ME.

 ' I took a big shit            

 And I heard it plop
 It made a big mess
Someone get a mop 
The bon-bon's make me pay
On the sunny beach
 With diarrhea the whole day...'
      
       Even after I sang ' Good Ship Lottapoop' to Graham, he still didn't trust that I was going to come to the costume party until I bought the pink and white gingham dress. ( I found it for $8 the first day I went looking for one at Out Of The Closet on Church and Duboce, which I took as a sign from God that it was time to put on women's clothes again). 

     Drew helped me get the curly, brown wig, and also tracked down a pair of large Mary-Janes at PayLess Shoes , which he was able to screw his old taps into.

            A blond himself, Drew did 'blond-on-blond', and went as Peter Berlin, the 1970's self-proclaimed gay icon who was a cross between the Marlboro Man and Farah Fawcett. Peter was Thom Of Finland's blond muse, and the muse of many other men as well, especially in dark, gay movie houses across the country. He was an artist, and at the same time, was a piece of art himself. A real Gay Superhero, with a Superhero body and a Superhero penis. He shot his own photography, made movies which he starred in, and even designed his own clothes, proving to the fashion world that buttons were unnecessary. 

   I ALLOWED MYSELF TO BE THE SWEET AND SUGARY
             SHIRLEY TEMPLE FOR ONE PICTURE.

     BUT THEN IT WAS BURLEY TEMPLE FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT

GRAHAM'S PARTNER PAUL WINS  THE AWARD FOR PERSON LEAST LIKELY TO EVER BE ACTUALLY CAST AS 'LITTLE ORPHAN ANNIE'. HE LOOKS  A

'LITTLE TOO OFTEN TANNIE ' FOR THE ROLE.

 GRAHAM'S DUCT-TAPE LIPS ONLY COST HIM THREE

 CENTS TO BUY AND TAKE FIVE MINUTES TO MAKE,  BUT 

THEY HAVE QUITE AN IMPACT.  PAUL'S CURLY RED HAIR 

IS MADE OF DUCT-TAPE TOO, AND SO IS GRAHAM'S 

SKIRT, HIS JEWELRY, AND THAT VERY FETCHING THING ON HIS HEAD, WHICH IS EITHER A HAT OR HAIR.

LOOSE LIPS SINK LOLLIPOP SHIPS 

                          WIGS OFF TIME!

    "HELLO, MY NAME IS BALD JEWISH TEMPLE.
     HAS ANYONE SEEN MY COUSIN BURLEY? "

                                           

       

             
       
          WATCH BURLEY TEMPLE in 

          I'M NOT TAPPIN'

                    

                          ALSO,  ' HAM ON HEELS' IS RE-ENTERED
                                     NOV 1st  IF YOU WANT TO
                          SEES ALL THE PAST COSTUMES. ENJOY!

                              HAPPY HALLOWEEN- LOVE, GARY

THE CLOCK STRUCK PRISCILLA 9/20/13

Hey- I'm still alive, still stuttering, and am ready to blog again. I had no idea this would turn into such a long break but I guess it was what I needed. 
     A Birthday Blog is the perfect way of re-starting. I just wrote 52, and have attached 50 & 51 to it. The three share a common theme so they can be read as a group. The Birthday Blogs are very short and very Priscilla.  I'm working on the finale to STUTTERVILLE now and will be finished soon. I promise.--- Gary,  a.k.a. Stutterpuss

     I'm turning 50 tomorrow. Well, I'm turning 50 at exactly 4:40 A.M. That's the time I was born, and it's the time my mother calls every year to wish me Happy Birthday. She doesn't have to set an alarm clock because her vagina instinctively remembers and wakes her. I'm woken up instinctively too, by my arms and legs thrashing around trying to escape out of my bedsheets. 

    When I moved to the West Coast into a different time zone, the Birthday phone call got more complicated. My mother's vagina and my thrashing limbs became out of sync from the three hour time difference. It forces her to do either addition or subtraction when she wants to call on my Birthday, which is enough to confuse her every year. Sometimes the call comes three hours early at 1:40  A.M. Sometimes it comes at 2:40 A.M. when she thinks its only a two hour time difference. It's astounding how many years she has made some kind of error in her time calculations.I even made up a poem for her to help keep the times straight in her mind:

              Gary takes a morning pee
            three full hours after me. 

     Unfortunately, it relied on her either remembering the poem itself or remembering where she put it, which has proven to be too much to expect.
     So off to bed I go with my cell phone right next to me. I may not know exactly what time the call will come, but when that phone rings at 40 minutes past something, I'll know who it is.

                                             *
     
           I grabbed my ringing phone in the dark.
       "Happy Birthday Pooh!. It's 7:44 here so  I know it's  4:44 there. Proud of your ol' Mom for finally getting it right?"
       I chuckled into the phone before I gave her the news. " Ma, I hate to tell you this, but I was born at 4:40, not 4: 44. That was the one thing you've gotten right all these years."
      " Are you sure? I could swear it's 4:44. I even have it written down here so I would call at exactly the right time," she said with certainty.
      " Sorry Ma. I know you tried but it's definitely 4:40."
      "  Oh shit," she groaned. " You're right. I just remembered what 444 was. It was the number of my flight coming home from Africa. I was reading it when I added it to my scrapbook last night. It must have stuck in my head. That's what happened,"she laughed at herself, then groaned a little more in exasperation. "It always happens when I see two numbers that are close." .
     " It was only one '4' off.  You came close at least," I laughed.
     " You're never going to believe this but something inside was telling me to call you at 4:40"- (that would be her vagina)-" but I just sat there staring at the phone until 4:44 because I was so sure that was the right time." 
     " Ma,  what makes it  so special is how you manage to get it wrong so often. It's all part of the call for me. Don't worry about it, it still counts," I chuckled then yawned. " Ma, I have to hang up and sleep a little more. Thanks for the birthday call. Love you.Goodbye." 
     " I love you too. Bye-bye, Pooh."

 The lesson of this little story is an obvious one: Never ignore what your vagina is trying to tell you.

===============================
     

  At the time I turned 50 last September 20th, I wrote THE CLOCK STRUCK PRISCILLA to explain how each year on my birthday, my mother Priscilla attempts to call me at 4 :40 A.M., which was the exact time of my long-ago departure from her vagina. No matter how hard she tries, she is always thwarted by either time zone changes, alarms set too late, phone numbers dialed incorrectly, misread penciled-in numbers, wrong area codes, and by her greatest enemy of all, simple math. 

    The three hour time difference between East and West Coasts has continued to vex her since I moved here 17 years ago from New York. 
      Last year she called thinking my birth time was 4:44 A.M. instead of 4:40. This meant I would have had to spend an extra four minutes trying to get out of her vagina. I assured her she was wrong, horrified at the thought of how much  more psychological damage four extra minutes stuck inside her would have caused me.
   When I turned off the lights and left my phone on, I wondered when the call would come. At 1:05 in the morning, the phone rang and I fumbled in the dark to answer it. It was my Nameless Booty Caller, or NBC. He must have gotten encouraged when I answered the phone, but was quickly discouraged when he heard "Mommy?" 
     I fell back to sleep but shot up from my pillow when the phone rang again. This time I had my glasses under the pillow ready so I could see who was calling. The caller I.D. read 'Priscilla' so I quickly answered it before the call went into voicemail.
     "Mommy?"
     " Happy Birthday Pooh!"
     " What time is it?' I immediately asked, dying to know if she screwed up again.
     " It's 7:40, which means it's 4:40 there, right?" she asked with guarded excitement.
     " Congratulations Ma, you got it right!" I cheered her in the darkness.
     " I promised myself I wouldn't get it wrong on your 50th birthday," she said, proud of her great accomplishment. 
     "Ma, what did you just say?" 
     " I said I didn't want to get it wrong again. Like you always say I do."
     " How old am I again?" I asked with  suspicion in my voice. 
     " You're 50 Pooh. The big one."
     " Oh Priscilla," I laughed. "You just gave me the best birthday present."  I paused a few seconds to laugh more and enjoy the moment. "I don't know how to break this to you Mommy, but I'm 51 now, not 50. That was last year."
     " Gary that's impossible. I would remember you turning 50. I counted it out on my fingers to make sure. 1962 plus 50 equals 2012. And Mitchell is two years older so he's 52."
     " Ma, I was born in 1961, not 62. So I'm 51 and Mitch is 53."
     " Oh my God, I can't believe I got that wrong. I never got that wrong before," she groaned. " I give up already. It's impossible."
     " Ma, the more times you get it wrong, the better the odds are of you eventually getting it right, " I laughed again. 
     " Why do all my children think it's so funny? It's hard remembering everything. You try having three children whose ages keep on changing," she defended herself as if this was a common dilemma that all mothers face. "It would be much easier if ages didn't change so often. Birthdays never change. That's why I'm so good at remembering them. I don't even have to write them down. How about some credit for never forgetting any birthday of any one's in this family."
     "It's true Ma. That is without doubt your specialty."
     " So don't laugh at me every year. You know I try."  
      " Ma, I love when you don't get it right. It's the highlight of every birthday,"I smiled in the dark. 
    " Next year, I'll get it perfect," she vowed.
    " If you do I'll never speak to you again, " I warned before saying good night and thanking her for the call again.
    " Goodnight Pooh, I love you."
    " I love you too."

 =============================================

         It's 12:09 A.M. on September 20, my birthday. This is the one day a year I allow myself to write about my mother's vagina. Luckily, her vagina is not on my mind a lot, except for seeing it every time I've closed my eyes for the past 42 years, ever since she did her naked bicycle pumps and jumping jacks  in front of me when I was 10. But this is not the time to complain about her vagina. This is the time to celebrate my mother's vagina. I want to thank it and salute it. After all, it was responsible for My Great Escape, as I call it ( I think a movie was made with the same name).

THE LIGHT, THE WONDERFUL LIGHT!

       The Birthday Call is the greatest tradition that my mother and I share. As a matter of fact, it is our only tradition. Nothing else survived from all the years of fighting and being apart. I guess this is why it's so significant in both our lives.

     The fact that she gets it wrong every year is it's own tradition within the tradition. She has always been very clear with herself that her ineptitude has nothing to do with her heart, and that her love is a very powerful force even without having much talent or skills. She remembers every one's birthday so easily because her heart has a tremendous memory, much bigger than her mind's, which is relegated to remembering time zones and other facts that are boring to her.

      Before I went to sleep, I checked to make sure my phone's battery was charged and the ringer was set on high. I didn't want to chance missing the Birthday Call. I was actually excited about it. It's funny, I never thought I would say that about any phone conversation involving my mother. I've grown to appreciate the calls more just for the immense amount of love that I have absorbed from them even when I didn't want to.

    

                      *

      Well, just like broken clockwork, she fucked up 

again. 4:20 A.M., 20 minutes too early. A premature Birthday Call. But this time she was able to blame her new husband, Joe. She said it was his fault for waking her up at 7:20 instead of 7:40, like he was supposed to, so he could leave earlier. She was scared she would fall back to sleep after he left and not call when she wanted to. The whole thing made no sense to me, especially at 4:20 in the morning. 

     The important thing is that she was true to form and was able to somehow  fuck up the Birthday Call again. She kept the tradition going and didn't ruin her streak. And who knows, maybe all her Birthday Call blunders have brought me good luck over the years. 

    Imagine if she finally gets everything right when I turn 53, and suddenly  everything and everyone around me starts to unravel. How frightening. Luckily, it would take a perfect Birthday Call to see if that would happen. Personally, I think there's a better chance of being hit by an asteroid.

A BIRTHDAY CALL BLUNDER FOR
EACH YEAR I'VE BLOGGED. 
GO PRISCILLA GO!