Dancing with myself

So, I was just informed that I haven't written a post in a while. This isn't entirely true - I have actually written two this week, but I didn't post them because the idea fizzled out when I tried to put the words to paper, plus, I am getting a little tired of hearing myself whine, so I promised not to blog until I could have something funny to say.

Niki would laugh at a balloon with a mustache drawn on it with a sharpie (haha, oh, those crazy balloons!), but other people are more discriminating. So, while I have a few minutes while whitening my teeth (woot! girls' night out!), I thought I'd try again.

Yesterday would have been my Uncle Larry's 63rd birthday. No, wait! I promise this isn't sad! Since his birthday was always around Thanksgiving, when he and my aunt would come over for dinner, we'd celebrate his birthday, too.

My (ex-) husband and I had gone to Mexico in 1998 as a sort of pre-wedding honeymoon, and I brought back souvenirs for some friends and relatives. For my mom, I brought back a white lace tablecloth that some peddler assured me was hand-made (yeah, in Korea by a little old machine that only stamped these things out on Sundays). It was a pretty cover for the dining room table, though, and I was proud that mom brought it out for one of Larry's birthdays. (Mom will say this was for his 50th birthday, but that's impossible, since that was before I ever even went to Mexico - so pbbth mom)

Mom had the brilliant idea to put a candle for each of Larry's years on this earth on this little 9" round layer cake. There were scores of candles - at least 51 of them. The dining room was aglow with light - there was a gleam in Larry's eyes as he bent over to blow them out...

And away they blew - the flames leaped from the overburdened cake to the tablecloth, which had evidently been "handmade" out of the most flammable material known to postwar Vietnam or wherever. The damn thing was seven months old and it had a cake-sized hole in the cloth that was second only by the hole in my heart - a hole that could only be filled with a monumental guilt trip that I am just now dishing out 12 years later. Best served cold, baby...

(Did I ever mention that my parents seem to break EVERY gift I give them? Ask me about the picture I gave dad for Father's Day 1998 sometime.)

So, see? I actually can write a funny story about my past that is only slightly flavored with resentment!

Larry - we miss you terribly, thank you for the memories!