Sixth Avenue, just below 31st Street

I’ve heard of wife swapping … but this? What the —? What a sad, sad trend. Apparently, despite the saying, you can pick your family. (Please refrain from thinking, “You can pick your friends. You can pick your nose. But you can’t pick your friend’s nose.” Please do not think that. Thank you.) (Because, really, you can pick your friend’s nose. Whether he or she will let you is another issue altogether.)
So, yeah. Mommy trading. I wouldn’t trade mine for all the tea in Whole Foods, Sympathy for the Kettle, or this “China” place. Especially not today, which, as coincidence would have it, is her birthday.
Yes, I have a mother, and yes, that mother has birthdays just like most other mothers. Mine happens to be 70 years old* today. Please, if you are so inclined, leave your loveliest birthday wishes for her in comments (yes, they are opened once again!). You don’t have to keep it clean (after all, do you really think any mother of mine would be a prude?), but at least try to keep the perversion to a bare minimum.
When I called her this morning, Shana and I sang a “Happy Birthday To You” duet. (Just between me and mew, she was a tad off-key.) I asked if she woke up any different, and she said, “I woke up in a polyester pant suit and Cobby Cuddlers. Beige. With crepe soles. My hair was dyed deep red, and you could see through it.”
Ahhh, yes. Gotta love my mom. And by gum, I do.
Happy birthday, mini Mamanita!
* Yes, 70 years old. Not 70 years “young”. *cringe*