It’s my Mom’s birthday this week and she’s a complete basket case. Really, what’s the big deal about turning seventy-eight? Honestly, I’ve just been so over all that age, number-obsessive stuff ever since I turned thirty-teen. The way I look at it, you celebrate birthdays because each one marks another year you’ve cheated death. Sure, I get some funny looks at the bakery when I order birthday cakes with “You’ve Cheated Death Again!” written on them in frosting, but that’s how I feel. Now everything she sees is making Mom feel old, even our pet turtle outgrowing his tank. That’s why I’m so glad she’s going to New York for a few days because if her best friend Margie can’t cheer her up, nothing will. Mom will do some stand-up, she and Margie will have lots of fun, and hopefully Mom will come back to Cooper and me in Los Angeles with something more cheerful on her mind than planning her own funeral. Because if she doesn’t, I may have to start planning mine.
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