There are few things so universal as birthdays. With the exception of aborted feti (is that the plural of fetus, JZ) and clones, we all get to enjoy the pleasure of marking our continued progress to the grave. And this, my 27th birthday has been no exception.

I’ve had celebrations and happy moments in many places, but folks, if you’ve never had a parking garage birthday, you should. I recommend the garage at Atlantic Station. I had amazing chance to stand behind a cranked mini-van, opening my unwrapped presents as frigid air and car exhaust filled my lungs. But what made this truly special was how my mom, the ever budget-conscious hunter for bargains and deals, found a great way to say ‘Happy Birthday, son’ on a shoe string.

“But how?”, you may ask. And how I shall tell you.

Some of the gifts were no brainers. She knew I would want them, and she gave them to me. Gifts in this category were easy to come by, because a nice man in a white truck occasionally drops them off at the little box near the end of my parents driveway. These gifts included the December issue of Wired Magazine, and the paper work for the class action suit I’m involved in.

No, I’m not being sued.

Yet.

What makes these gifts sure fire? Well, a couple of things, really. One giveaway is the fact that they have my name on them. It’s like when people say, “I saw this shirt, and it had your name all over it.” Only in this case, my name actually was on it. Printed neatly near the bottom of the envelope. The second way she knows I’ll want gifts like this: Because I paid for them. Nothing says “I love you” like giving somebody something that they purchased for themselves over a year ago. She’s a smart one, my mom.

The second class of gifts require a bit more thought. This class of gift dictates that she stop on her way home and grab something out of the trash from a store that I like.

Since gifts generally come inside some sort of packaging (like a box), it’s natural to see a box, on ones birthday, and assume that a gift lies within. The collective experience, passed down to me through the inherited genes of my ancestors, has taught me box on birthday contains gift. But my mom, ever the one for breaking down the barriers of tradition and questioning the gift giving establishment, decided not to give me a gift in a box. She game me the gift of a box.

Move over Mao.

Step aside Che.

F*** off Fidel. The real revolutionary is Beverly, b****es.

I’d be kind of pissed about all of this if it weren’t for the other box. The one with the three really nice cigars in it.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 6th, 2007 at 11:33 pm. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.