38 Special

38, today am I. I think that I was born at like 9:50 a.m., and Mike came out ten minutes later? I know for a fact that Mike came out ten minutes later. Hell, that has been a fact that I have lorded over him for, oh, about 38 years now. Of all the ways that I psychologically tortured him as a child (and an adult), among my favorites was saying, after he sought clarification on some passing reference that he likely had merely not heard, "oh, I can't explain it now. In ten minutes you'll be old enough to get it." I'm good, no?

Today was a roller coaster ride of a birthday. Morning celebration with Cathleen, kids and the Entin Bells featured a "doughnut cake" -- Max's genius alternative for normal cake. At his behest, Cathleen bought three Dunkin Donuts, uh, doughnuts, piled them up on each other and implanted candles. A bit much of a sugar jolt for me pre-coffee, but the kids seemed to like it. Miriam made me a great card ("You are the jokiest boy I've ever met.").

I arrived at work late and over the course of the day I had to fire someone for the first time ever, and I learned that a former client of mine, whom I had worked with many times and liked, had died. Firing the guy was a no-brainer, as his screw-up was monumental and was not, unfortunately, unprecedented, but it was stressful nonetheless. Fortunately, to his credit, he was gracious and professional in accepting his dismissal, but that in the long run may have made it all that much harder for me. In a sense it would have been easier had he screwed up and then had been angry with me for holding him accountable. I mean, I wouldn't be worth shit as a program director had I not fired him, but I can't escape thinking about the impact it had on his life. As for my former client...well, a few times every year I am reminded that my clients have AIDS and, despite the amazing advances in treatment that have been made over the past decade, it is still a terminal illness. I remember this client as a friendly, vibrant, chatty woman who would get all dressed up to attend what I considered low-level administrative hearings regarding her benefits and whom, despite the number of times I asked her to call me Rick, would always call me Mr. Kahn in her thick, high-pitched, Puerto Rican accent.

After work, I met Cathleen in Manhattan for dinner at Casa Mono, a Spanish tapas restaurant opened by celebrity chef Mario Batali. It was smaller than I had expected, and the tables adjacent to ours were practically on top of us. And it was loud, with music booming over us as if we were in some hipster bar. But once we had ordered our food, and began consuming our bottle of wine (something red, I cannot believe that I have no recollection of what it was), and adjusted to our surroundings, I realized that I was hearing Up the Junction coming from the speakers. Oh my god, they were playing Squeeze! A really good restaurant just became sensational. What are the odds of walking into a semi-trendy Manhattan restaurant on your 38th birthday and having the night's soundtrack be one of your favorite bands from 20 years ago?

The food was great: bacalao croquetas with an orange sauce; mussels with chorizo; duck with cranberry mostaza; lamb shank with jerusalem artichoke puree; grilled brussel sprouts; sauteed mushrooms with garlic. We polished off the bottle of wine by the end of the meal which meant that either Cathleen finally had gained the capacity to drink a half bottle of wine at dinner, or I was a bit cocked. She alleges the latter. For dessert she managed to make it through only half of some amazing chocolatey chocolate thing, and I managed to wolf down my entire burnt vanilla custard (sort of a creme caramel) which featured battered and deep-fried bay leaves on the side (you eat the fried dough, but not the leaves). We headed home and spent a while talking with Claudia who had put the kids to bed; she regaled us with tales of how Max was this incredibly helpful, caring and thoughtful older brother during the entire process, supplying her with ideas and assistance in trying to pacify a congested and ear-infected Eliza.

I can distinctly recall the days when 38 seemed old to me, and yet I still feel like a goofy kid most days of the week. It's more of an "in denial" thing than a "young at heart" thing, but old is as old does, I suppose. Back in those days of actual youth, I'm not sure I had any sense of what 38 would be like for me, but I imagine that had I had some measure of focus, I would have hoped to have married my true life partner, and perhaps have fathered two amazing kids whom I cherish more than anything. Regrets, I've had a few, but I could not be in a happier place.