Happy Birthday, Michele!

Yep. It's Michele's forty-fifth birthday today -- our own very PsycheMajor, a regular and cheerful commenter on this blog. Alas, as my Christmas was stolen by a cold, her birthday was stolen by a migraine. In a touching show of solidarity, I, too, have a migraine today. Mine's milder than Michele's. I even have hopes for going to Carino's with Mike's family in about three hours, but I've had a lot of similar hopes these last couple of days, and they have come to naught.

Still, I put some peppermint oil on the back of my neck and went to bed -- for about the billionth time since Tuesday -- and it seems to have helped. Wow. I got up and did the dishes. Double wow.

As long as I'm still vertical, I may engage in one of my favorite annual activities: transferring valuable information from Calendar 2008 to Calendar 2009. Yes. I love to record all the birthdays and anniversaries. Most of the time, such notations elicit a mere, pleased grunt when I check the date and see "Donna '61" written in non-photo blue pen.

Talk about an anachronism! That was the color of pen to proofread with because the copy camera couldn't pick it up. See, you could mark the mistakes with that pen, and then typeset, say, two lines of type, correcting the mistake, and, after sending the small galley of corrections through the waxer, slice the lines with your X-acto (or in my case, your Olfa ... er, my Olfa), and then paste the two-line correction onto the galley and off it goes to paste-up, and then to the camera for a negative to be shot, and then to stripping, and ...

There, Michele! There's a little blast from your past, too! You, too, FlaHoos!

But back to the calendars. I used to keep a datebook that acted like a truncated diary. I'd list the meetings I went to and whether I chaired or spoke. I'd note the movies and with whom; lunch and where with whom; sex, as I so vaguely recall, and with whom. I had symbols for PMS and, later, hot flashes. For migraines. For crying. For boyfriend fights.

Every now and then, I still run across a datebook from years ago and become enthralled with the drama. I also become confused with the symbols, since I never stuck with them for long, always seeking perfection. Did that H mean a headache or a hot flash? I'm quite certain it didn't mean hair cut.

So today, if I clear off the kitchen table, I'll spread out my old calendar (Women of the African Ark that Mike got me from the Museum of Modern Art in New York ... which is surely better than saying "from MOMA in NYC"). I'll spread out Amnesty International's Photographs by VII 2009 next to it. Huh? Well, VII is a photo agency formed in September 2001 and "responsible for creating and relaying to the world many of the defining images of the 21st century." As you know, I'm a xenophile, so of course I'm going to love it.

I'll turn those women of the African ark into magnificent envelopes.

And then I'll put the two Sierra Club desk calendars together -- 2008 and 2009 -- and do the same thing.

If my oldest brother and his wife are sticking to tradition, I'll soon be getting another wall calendar full of mostly old photos of Nicolazzos and Huckabones (no sniggering!). I hope they're sticking.

I quit the datebook/diary thing several years ago, so it's unfair to call me a compulsive record-keeper, but I still like to know that, oh, Fahrudin was born on June 1, 1979. Sometimes seeing the note on my calendars will even inspire me to contact the people.

So how about this? How about you tell me your birthday and we'll celebrate it here? Good idea! You can even tell me privately (hah!) via email.

(Interesting that Mister Google -- the Mayor of Blogtown -- has xenophobe in his dictionary, but not xenophile ...)

Since Michele's rapidly turning into The Crazy Cat Lady Of Foothills Drive, I'll let Mittens wish her a happy birthday, too!