birthday boy

nicaraguan birthday

Morley's birthday is Monday, which reminds me of this time last year when he talked me into not rescheduling our mission trip to Nicaragua the week before our wedding. Ahem.

Anyway, here's a little home movie at his 60th birthday party in Chinandega, Nicaragua:



Happy birthday, Morley. Love you long time, and I promise not to torture you this year give you a pinata for your birthday. This year.

Me and Bratley

We grew up together, me and Bratley, the two youngest kids in a family of six. The age gap between the two of us and our four older siblings was such that the older kids weren't interested in playing cars or cowboys and Indians with us--they were more into activities such as dating and driving---so Brad and I pretty much had each other for company for most of our childhoods.

Brad had a speech impediment when he was little. Although I understood him perfectly almost no one else could, so I was not only his playmate but also his interpreter:

Stranger: "Why, what a cute little boy you are! What's your name, little one?"

Bradley: "Bbbwwwaaawwwey"

Stranger: "Huh?"

Bradley gives me an elbow to the ribs

Me: "His name is Bradley"

Stranger: "And how old are you Bradley?"

Bradley gives me an elbow to the ribs

Me: "He's three"

Stranger: "Well Bradley, you sure are cute with your blue eyes and those big dimples"

Bradley gives me an elbow to the ribs

Me: "He says thank you"

Stranger: "Would you like some candy, Bradley?"

Me: "He says no thank you and please give his candy to me"

Bradley gives me an elbow to the ribs followed by a karate chop to the throat

Brad eventually got his speech fixed thanks to a nice speech therapist at the university, but it took me another fifty years a little while to get used to not doing all his talking for him.

Bradley says thank you for all the birthday wishes*.

And he says he forgives me completely for forgetting his 50th birthday.

Also, he says I'm the coolest sister ever and way smarter and funnier than he is. Also he says I can have his new car, his uber cool Bluetooth headset, his GPS that does more tricks than mine, and a $30,000 check.

* Bradley: GO HERE to see what the heck I'm talking about. And you really should get in the habit of checking my blog more often, you know.

A sad tale about brothers and birthdaysAlso, I need a favor, bad

As you may have guessed by the lack of riveting new material posted here, I've been working long and hard lately. And because I've been working so long and hard I've let a few things slip.

Things such as remembering my youngest brother Bratley's, er I mean Bradley's, fiftieth birthday for example. I can't believe I let such a big event slide by me, but I did and I let it slide BAD. It was last week.

But as you can see, he has maintained his boyish good looks (look at that, will ya? his leather jacket from high school still fits!) so you can understand why it just didn't dawn on me that the dude is getting old*.

*he's not as old as me, but still.

Anyway, so here's where I really need your help. I'm sucking up throwing a little belated birthday party here to make up for my forgetting I even had a brother the rather subdued 50th birthday festivities of last week and I would really appreciate it if you would leave Bradley a happy birthday comment.

Don't worry if you don't actually know him--he'll never figure it out and besides, he can't afford to be all that picky about who his friends are. (Oh wait, that didn't sound right. I wasn't referring to you, my dear and faithful readers, all four of you).

What I was trying to say is that it doesn't matter who wishes him happy birthday just so long as somebody does since his own durn sister forgot all about it. The goal here is to have 50 people wishing him a happy 50th Birthday.

My brother Bratley is special *cough* *cough* to me and I love him dearly. And I'm really truly deeply sorry that I forgot all about his 50th birthday. Also, I'm really banking on this shameless act of sucking up to get me out of his dog house. So lay it on thick, okay?

Love,
Sis

PS. If you think you might actually know Bratley but aren't sure, here is a photo of him back when he had hair:

PPS: And while we're at it, I'm also really sorry about last year when we left him stranded all night on a disabled houseboat with no food or water or luggage in 100 degree weather. But I can only make up for one Bad at a time.

PPPS: When you leave your Happy Birthday comment, can you please mention where you are from so he won't accuse me of leaving 50 anonymous wishes myself? (and if you happen to be in Tucker, Georgia just make up some another city--he'll never know the difference.) (He's so suspicious, that guy. I can't imagine why.)

the best sister a girl could ever hope for

PS I love you to bits.

Recovery

So. Wednesday was my birthday. I turned fifty-freakin'-three which, I reminded myself, sucks but it sure beats never turning fifty three. It's all in how you look at it, a practice in rationalization that comes in handy as I age. My boobs sag like cannon balls in a gunny sack but at least I can stay out past 10 PM without asking for my parents' permission. Or, more accurately, I could stay out past 10 PM without permission if I could only stay awake that late.

Anyway, my beloved sister called me first thing to sing happy birthday and my friend Carol called next, and throughout the day I got birthday wishes from lots of family and friends.

My first hint that not everyone remembered my birthday came after lunch when my coworkers presented me with a cake and sang Happy Birthday to me (albeit in the key of "N"--you'll never see a barbershop quartet comprised of engineering types), and they gave me a birthday card they had circulated around the office for everyone to sign.

As I read the card my eyes were drawn to one particular entry: the one that was signed "oooops!". And that was my first clue that my husband had forgotten my birthday.

When I arrived home after work he looked like this, an expression not unlike the one prisoners have as they are led away to the electric chair.

He was so apologetic and remorseful about forgetting my birthday that I decided not to kill him after all. I ate the festive dinner of microwaved lasagne that he prepared all by himself with his own two hands, and I resisted the temptation to make him feel any worse than he already did--if such a thing was even possible. After dinner was over I gave him a wimpy goodnight kiss accompanied by a feeble "that's okay, honey" and went to bed.

The next day I worked from home on some year-end accounting stuff, and at 5:00 on the nose I heard my husband come in the back door. Normally I would rush to greet him with a kiss, but this time I stayed at my desk working because not only was I in the middle of a tricky calculation, but I was also in the middle of dishing out some apathetic treatment towards forgetful husbands.

After I finished the calculation I was working on I moseyed into the kitchen to greet him. And there he stood beside a bouquet of flowers as big as a Buick and a stash of gifts, each of which he had carefully and thoughtfully chosen (versus his normal selection process which revolves around whatever merchandise the store has displayed closest to the door).

And he gave me the sweetest birthday card ever produced by mankind then took me out for a wonderful dinner during which he said the nicest, sweetest things and made me feel like a million bucks.

And so I forgave him completely for forgetting my birthday and even secretly hoped he forgets again next year.