The Way Things Are Sometimes

So yesterday was my birthday and I turned 58. It wasn't so bad because until last week when I did the math I thought I was already 58. So this is a re-do year, though how I made that mistake is something of a mystery. Same thing happened when I was turning 30. I had spent the day in Central Park, alone, just thinking, and it occurred to me in going over things that I simply couldn't recall age 29. For some reason it seemed to be a blank. Not that I couldn't recall what I'd done that year, I just couldn't recall ever saying I was 29, and yet there I was, turning 30 the next day. And I finally went home and spoke with Clare, with whom I was living and let her know how darned frustrating it all was. She listened attentively, and when I finished, calmly noted:
"You're out of your mind, you know? You're turning 29 tomorrow, not 30."
So I did the math and sure enough, I was turning 29, not 30. And so this year I kept thinking I was turning 59 and thinking that I was missing something...and of course, I was.
Now being my birthday, that meant I was to do shopping, cleaning, cooking. Not counting the regular stuff. So I put in a wash, put my trip stuff away and got to collecting towels, as there were none to use if I took a shower.
How my boys and Sarah manage to stuff 19 used and damp towels into bookcases, under mattresses and so forth I will never quite understand, but knowing where to look I found them all in less than two hours. Moldy, stinky and wet and into the washer they went.
Italo, however, had snuck in a wash after my initial wash, and so when the towels were ready for the dryer I realized I had a huge load of his clothes--he'd snuck off somewhere to avoid the job, I'm sure--to fold. Which I did. Now aside from the usual brazzieres and thongs (Sarah's) and Italo's sports clothes and sox, what was unusual was how many of his underwear I kept coming on. And on. And on. Thirty-seven underpants of his in that one load. 37? What the hell is he doing with 37-underwear? And why did they all need washing at once? Heck, I don't own 37 pieces of clothing, much less 37 underwear. And all regular. Nothing to suggest a fetish or anything. Just 3 dozen underpants. I'm still gonna have to ask him about that.
Birthday dinner was great: Couple of nephews with their girls came over, couple of other friends of Italo and Marco's new girl as well as Chep and the babies. I made Peruvian chicken, hot links, sweet sausage, steak, hot potato and egg salad, asparagus, broccoli and beans. Everything was going great until it was cake time.
It was a huge cake covered in thick brightly-colored sugary junk and I blew out the candles and went to get a knife to cut it when Bam! Something hit me squarely on the back of the head. I turned to get another something right in my face. It was cake. And then all hell broke loose: Cake began flying everywhere. I mean 10 pounds of creamy junk started crossing the room in three ounce blobs. The fight was on. Sierra got nailed on her chin; Alexa took a glob to her stomach and began eating it contentedly. But Renzo and Marco and Chepa and Italo were down and dirty, lambasting each other mercilessly at very close range. Someone reached for the potato/egg salad and caught me on the neck; someone else got me with a piece of chicken. Beans made the kitchen floor slippery as ice....the fight went on until nobody could find any more cooked food and the canned stuff seemed too dangerous...
When it was all done but the laughter, I naturally picked up what I could salvage and stashed it in the stove, then served it to Marco and Italo for breakfast...the kitchen floor isn't such a dirty place, after all.
But times like that, times when that kind of spontaneous insanity breaks out makes me think it's a great great family to be part of. Nutty, not quite typical, totally broken but so freaking joyeous it's fantastic.
Heck of a birthday party.