Octogenarian Hangover

I didn't win the lottery. I got one number. That's ok. You know you live in SoCal when your desk is by the window, the blinds are shut and you still need to wear sunglasses to see the computer screen.

My Great Aunt Maxine and her one-eyed dog, Banjo. Thanksgiving 2011

My Great Aunt called this morning to tell me she's hungover from her 87th birthday party last night. She lives in a pretty posh assisted living facility where she says that although it's rough thinking you're three years from 90, 87 is pretty much the median age there so she doesn't feel so bad. She says there's a youngster there who's 79. She said there's a lady there who used to own the most ornate boutique dress shop near the capital in Sacramento. She turned 100 recently and as a gift to herself she got a facelift and doesn't look a day over 85. The centenarian also got herself the sleekest red scooter that she uses to buzz up and down the place. My Great Aunt Maxine said that back when she was younger people didn't get cancer from cigarettes until they started putting nicotine in them in the 60's. She then retracted that statement and said that's probably not true. They just croaked and no one knew to blame cigarettes.

She said the birthday party lasted until 11. She wishes I could've been there. The thing is, I was in bed by 9.30.