It's an upside-down world......

When the person you love most sends more than enough money for your birthday that you can afford a new between-times jacket and new pair of shoes. (And not have to lie to anyone who shivers looking at you in a sweater while they are already in winter jackets, of which I have tw0, but it is waay too early.)

As to the shoes... well, they're sneakers I got as a present seventeen years ago, only wore them occasionally for a while, but for the past three-four years... well, they're sort of falling apart. Well, not even sort of... They wouldn't survive even the most delicate fine-wash cycle in the washing machine, so they aren't very nice to look at... and I do have other shoes... except most of the time my feet are swollen, and have a hard time getting into them. Like taking five minutes and cursing like Cinderella's stepsisters all the way... nope, the sneaks are comfortable enough... but falling apart.

It's an upside-down world in that I should be the one sending a goodly sum to help someone be comfortable in advanced age, and can only feel guilty about it all because I can't.

And I know that if I say anything, I'm only gonna hear he 'won' it... ummm.... errr.. somehow. It feels wrong.

And it feels like an upside-down world when I see in the snail-mail box that I got mail from my best friend. And I haven't mentioned this here, I don't think, but having been depressed this year, I hadn't even opened the mail-box from February till October, so 'someone' decided to just dismantle the door to the post-box, and it disappeared, so now I HAVE to look, 'just-in-case'.

(I'm fairly certain that that 'vandalism' is my neighbor Rudi-Doody's work... it has his signature all over it. Not broken into... the door just removed! I think he thought I'd lost the key, or something, but there IS such a thing as asking.... and of COURSE he denys knowing anything about it. Post-box doors do NOT dismantle themselves...)

It's an upside-down world when that very best friend spends over a dollar for a stamp and money for a birf-day card when she is so strapped, that money might have made the difference between getting a pack of cigarettes, or something decent to eat.

And it's an upside-down world that she finally gets back to where she had wanted to be and lands at an address that sort of sounds like 'enjoyment street', but there is no 'enjoyment' to be seen far and wide, and it becomes a mockery of what she had so yearned for. And as much as I love her, I so wish she had used the money for herself, and sent me a crazy free-of-charge e-mail.

That isn't criticism. I wish for a lot of things, and knowing what it cost her also makes me feel guilty, because I'm so not worth that sort of attention.

I wish I had the funds to send her something that would rock her world, and there never seems to be a red-cent left over come end of the month, try as I may.

And, of course, it isn't my birfday, we have a couple-three weeks yet. And I haven't ever really celebrated it except my fiftieth, where I pulled out all the stops for an entire week.

No, I didn't hold orgies, or go on a mind-bending spree. I celebrated with friends... two to three at a time, and held lavish dinner parties. All of them began with my favourite recipe at the time. Stuffed oysters creole style, with three sorts of fillings. Peter had gotten me a metal chain glove to work on the 'ersters' after I'd cut myself the first time, and a special knife to open them, so I sort of looked like Michael Jackson doing crazy work on seafood. One of my guests gave me a very expensive chopping knife with my initials and the date engraved on it, which was a lavish gift coming from someone more on Peter's side of acquaintances.

That was my favourite birf-day of all time, because I was the one giving something that I was good at, and there was champagne, and laughter, and wonderful conversation, and it was all 'good'.

The only other I enjoyed was shortly after 'da Ven' married my step-mother. I turned eight, and her sister, my late aunt made me the most elaborate cake I had ever seen, it was a carousel. I was just overwhelmed. And never forgot it. It was 'acceptance', and being part of a new 'fambly'...

Otherwise... 'birf-days' never rattled me much at all.

But it IS an upside-down world for me being a recipient of kindnesses, and humbling, and sort of embarassing.

I won't open the card till 'da day'. It will be the only thing to look forward to. And go shopping... which I absolutely hate.

There are days, like this one, where I don't feel I deserve any of that. You basic Protestant work ethic... I wasn't 'successful' in the end, so I can't be a 'good' person. The rest of the year, I don't mind being 'bad'.

There's always been a lot of 'jumping the gun' regarding my non-horriday. My bio-Mom was the worst... I would get combo-birfday-Christmas cards in September, she didn't want them to be late. A bank transfer takes three to five days even in this electronic age, because it goes through several stations, and they all 'sit' on it to get some interest. An airmail card from the US takes five to seven days, depending on whether there is a week-end or horriday in between.

The crassest thing I ever got was the usual combo birf-day Xmas card one September from my bio-Mom.

After she had been dead for over a year. First reaction? I gave my work nick-name Flipper a whole new dimension. Until I saw that the date was over a year old. It probably got lost somewhere, but that was the most horribly uncanny thing I ever experienced. Even from the grave, I thought, she never lets go, and the hand-written stuff in it was... manipulative as only she could do it.

Yeah... upside-down...

To both of youse guys... I love you. And thank you humbly.