Bonus: amuse yourself by guessing what song the headline came from.

My birthday arrived last weekend.
Quietly, which was exactly how I wanted it.

At my age that’s not something one goes around announcing, unless you think everyone would be surprised you’re still here.

I’ve now been telling people I’m 39 years old for thirty years.

I suspect it may be reaching the point no one believes me anymore no matter how youthful I may – or may not – look.

Probably “may not”.

I went to the Internet and looked up the names of celebrities that would be my age.
A large portion of the list were people who are dead.

That’s depressing although it’s proof that booze, sex and rock n’ roll doesn’t necessarily equal a long life.

Since I am an expert at being old I’d like to share this happy event and help you plan your life.

Here’s what you will have to look forward to when you get really old like me:

– Oldies stations consider the music you grew up with as too ancient to play.
You think it’s the best stuff ever.

I have a friend with a gazillion CD’s and he’s always paying music that goes back to the prehistoric age of rock.
His home sounds like a cross between a 1950’s radio station, New Orleans ’60s blues dive and Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.

He’s happy as a clam.

– Not matter what you think you see in the mirror, that’s not you.
Delusion is a wonderful thing, but after enough people call you “old” it stops working.

– You’ll look for “sensible” and “comfortable” clothes when shopping.
Bonus if they are both “roomy” and “flattering”, which we know is impossible.

– Your favorite foods will now wreak havoc on your insides.
The current trend in fast food to spicy-as-hell is sure death.

– Hangovers will destroy you.
First you think you’re dying, then you think you died and now you’re dead.

– Quiet never sounded so good.

– Your back will hurt for no damn reason.
Same goes for your feet.

– Your clothes aren’t the only thing with wrinkles.

But nature has a wonderful way of making whatever age you’re at seemingly okay.

You should welcome old age, especially when you think of the people who never had a chance to get there.

I’ve learned the best way to deal with old age is to ignore it.
And that includes birthday parties.

So this year the wife cooked at home for the brood.

It was sort of the usual every other Saturday family dinner thing except there’s a birthday cake there.

With so many candles one has to turn off the fire alarm before lighting them.

And forget blowing them out in a single breath.

The best thing to do is smother it with something big and fireproof.

I’m 69.
Mixed feelings about that number.

The whole thing makes me grumpy.

In a fit of boredom a couple of nights ago I Googled myself.

I wasn’t looking for me – I was looking for all those imposters who are using my name.

Most of them are female, which gives great credibility to my scientific theory that women the world over loved me so much they named their daughters after me.

That’s how Courtney Harrington became a lady’s name and I get lots of junk mail addressed to “Ms.”

I am honored.
Truly.

Here are a selected few just from LinkedIn.

One Courtney Harrington is a seasonal cashier at Mt. Rose Ski Tahoe.
I suspect that means she only works when there’s snow.

No word on what she does the rest of the time.
If she’s like me she naps a lot.

Then there is the lady Courtney Harrington who lists herself as an ice cream artist at Cold stone Creamery somewhere in the mainland.

She describes her job as singing, cake decorating, cake building, ice cream making, interacting with people, tolerance, cashier skills, fast pace work, good problem solving, leadership skills, critical thinking, optimistic attitude, respect, singing in public.

I think I like her.
We need more tolerant people.

I also like this lady with my name who is the owner of Boulevard Pawn in North Carolina.

Maybe she’ll loan me some money.

I’m not exactly what the good doctor she works for does, but another Courtney Harrington is the personal assistant to Robert Bulger, MD of the Southwest Pain Group. Her job description: Manage personal finances, coordinate various contractors and service providers, arrange business and personal travel and associated expenses, act as a liaison between attorneys and physician, review, organize and build timelines for med-mal defense work, event planning, courier, chauffeur, personal shopping, errand girl.

I don’t think I’ve heard the term “errand girl” in twenty years.

Then, I wonder why this Courtney Harrington never tried to recruit me.
After all, she’s the Recruitment Manager at Executive Recruiting.

Psst, call me.
Then we can go to a cocktail party together and never know who is talking to which one of us.
Great fun.

From the city where Apple comes from, we have a Yoga Instructor and RN named after me.

Ladies like that scare me because they are in better condition than I am.

By far my favorite is a Courtney Harrington who is an Autopsy Technician in the Hillsborough County Medical Examiner’s Office.

You have to love how she describes her job: I log in and process incoming bodies through photos, finger printing, and cataloging of personal items. I assist our Forensic Pathologist prior to the autopsy and during by setting up the proper equipment and aiding in the collection of specimens and the retrieval of the brain.

I want to meet her…preferably while alive.

This takes a little explaining.

We had four dogs.

The mother and the father lived to a ripe old age and are in whatever passes for doggie heaven.
Waiting for me, I hope.

I would prefer to go wherever they are.
My dogs are much better behaved than most people I know.

Of the five puppies she had, three are with other people and we have two.

All are almost 14 and that’s really, really old for a Maltese.
Older than me if you count them in doggie years and I’m really, really old.

One of our two has developed back problems and doesn’t walk well.
Actually, he walks a lot like I do – lurching down the hall on rubbery legs.

I have a better sense of humor about it than he does but he’s adjusting.
People and dogs are amazingly adaptable.

He can’t walk on our slippery floors because he has little strength in his legs and ends up doing the splits and falling down.
It’s really painful to see.

So the wife, never at a loss for being a good mother, has lined the house with various size and color throw rugs making paths from here to there for him.

Whatever was on sale at the time she went shopping.

It works well but the house now looks like something out of Saudi Arabia and I spend all day tripping over the damn things.

As long as we’re home the two dogs are okay together.
When we’re gone they either play or fight and that’s not good for the one with the bad back.

So my bride buys this humongous cage to put him in when we’re out.

It’s one of these, “I know you don’t like it but someday you’ll thank me”, kind of thing.

And like it he doesn’t – barking almost non-stop all day.
The wife checks one of the surveillance cameras multiple times during the day and I get these text messages at work about the poor dog being unhappy.

Now we get to the story.

This is a very big cage.

The dog weighs 6 pounds and a 120 pound Saint Bernard would be comfortable inside it with room to invite over some friends for poker.

We made sure his vacation house has plenty of space so he can lurch from one end to the other.

It’s big – with water, a nice soft bed and a toy he ignores.

This picture is not my house but the cage looks like this, but a bit larger.

I could be happy staying there.
The next time she sends me to the dog house I know where I can go.

The wife now has an idea she picked up from one of her girlfriends whom she listens to much more than me.

She wants to add a smaller cage at one end so the dog has a place to go shee-shee.

A separate bathroom, if you will.

One room for barking (a lot) and sleeping (a little).
One room for handling #1 and #2.

The next thing is she’ll be making curtains.

I admit it’s an interesting idea because the one time he made #2 in the cage he was covered in it when we got home.

I dragged out my disability excuse so the wife ended up having to clean him and cage.
I stayed out of her way the rest of the night.

But here’s the problem…

The only thing new the dog has learned in the past five years is who is good for nibbles from the dining room table.

Me, of course.
I like to share.

It only took him a couple of meals to get the proper begging look and attitude in place.

Dogs are very smart when it comes to food.

There is no way anyone is going to teach him that this is your bathroom and this is your living room.

I like the little guy.
He’s really sweet but he’s dumb as a rock.

I’m comparing him to his mother who was smarter than some people I know.
That’s another story for a different time.

Anyway, the wife brought it up again a couple of nights ago.

As wonderful as she is, when she gets something in her head it becomes a war of attrition I’m destined to lose.

She keeps mentioning it and I keep losing brain cells each time I explain why it’s a wonderful, creative idea – but won’t work for this reason or that.

After a while I’ll start running low on brain cells and need to keep some in reserve so I can do things like find my way home, use the TV remote, and remember to wash my hands after using the bathroom.

She counts on this.
She knows I’ll eventually give in out of a sense of self-preservation.

That’s how she gets her way.
And that’s how I get grumpy.

Wish me luck.