January 12th, Every Year

If all was right in my world I'd be going to dinner tonight at the club, in the grill room. Jojo would bring a round of cocktails, Mimi would hold hers up in the air and sing out "Jojo, dear, this one is just a tad light" and he'd quickly bring out a wee bit of bourbon to darken things up.

For dinner she'd have liver and onions, I would make a horrible face, and she'd shoosh me off with one hand, her charm bracelet ringing, and say "oh you have never known what's good!". Dinner would be interrupted countless times while she waved at everyone who walked in the grill "hello dear!" and while waving she'd whisper "you know that's a wig" or "that's her third husband" or "don't you think that dress is a bit young for her?". She knew everyone and everyone her, although probably not that she gossiped about each and every one of them.

She'd carefully open her cards, read each word, and tear up about halfway through the Hallmark scribed sentiment. My father would bellow out "MOTHER, please, stop crying, it's a card" and then I'd join her and dad would order another cocktail.

We'd wrap up with her ordering peppermint pie for everyone, with "extra fudge sauce Jojo" and then I'd wheel her through the clubhouse to the front door. Dad would get the car while I got our coats, and lemon drops from the jar on the counter, and then we'd load up the old gal and take her home. And it was always a perfect evening, perfectly predictable, perfectly lovely, and now, perfectly missed.

Happy Birthday my dear old coot, I miss you still.

Originally posted on this date in 2009, my sentiments remain the same. Happy birthday my dear gal.