I’m blessed with nephews. They are wonderful, each and every one of them. Even when they are torturing me with teasing, I know they’d be the first ones to rush to my rescue. For example, one in particular … and I’m not naming names but let’s say his name starts with C … has been nagging me to leave more lights on at night so my house doesn’t look like a deserted tomb ripe for brigands and raiders. When I complained last week that I felt guilty wasting electricity to light an empty room, he and his father replied that I’m not wasting electricity; I’m investing in security. “Fine, I’ll leave lights on in the living room.” And that’s what I’ve been doing, including last night when I got this call: “Busted.” “What?” Your house is pitch dark.” “What are you talking about? I’ve got the floor lamp on. The salt lamp is on …” “Pitch dark.” “ … I’ve got the driveway light on …” “Go outside on the porch and take a look.” “I can’t go out on the porch. The light turns on so bright I can’t see f..k.” “Pitch dark.” “Are you even outside?” “No. I drove by earlier. Pitch dark.” “Then come over now and see for yourself.” “OK.” Me, hanging up and talking to myself, “He’s not coming over.” In the old days, before I gave up all physical labor of any sort, I used to enjoy pulling weeds. Once in a while C would drive by and see me crouched over the Petunias. Then later, when his sense of responsibility would get the better of him, he’d pull over wherever he was, call me, and we’d have this conversation: “Are you alive?” “What? “I saw you bent over the flower bed and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t fainting on the flower pots.” “I’m fine. I was weeding.” “All right. I didn’t want to have to have to turn around and take you to the hospital.” “Thank you. Next time stop here and honk. Wait! Don’t honk. That could give me a heart attack. Then you’d have to take me to the hospital.” The worst time was when he got even with me for forgetting his birthday. To make up for my omission, and to tease him a little, I started leaving balloons and kiddy gifts on his front porch every month. Family and friends warned me not to mess with C. He was far too formidable and I would be sorry. But this was genial fun; no one would get hurt. He began reciprocating on the day of my birth, leaving treats. My favorite was the birthday card I got in the mail. Inside was a stamped return envelope with his address, both to and from. Inside that was a birthday card in which he wrote a lovely sentiment to himself, starting with “Dear C…” and then he drew a line for my signature underlined with theses instructions: “Write your name here.” That was great. I saved it for a year and mailed it to him after he had forgotten all about it. I also won a year or two later on his birthday when I called him at work from a number he didn’t recognize so he couldn’t ignore the call and claim I missed again. That little victory felt swell. But the family was right. I shouldn’t have messed with C. He got me so good he felt really bad because he nearly killed me on the spot. A little background is needed. I’d spent two years holding my breath, waiting for my husband to finish packing up his belongings, fling them in his truck, and head east for the comforts of a trailer park in East Texas. The strain was beginning to tell on me. I stopped eating; I stopped coming home; I was rail thin and short on energy. The only things I did were go to work and then go to ballroom classes with my dance partner. Said partner let me know he had a business meeting with a client before our next lesson so I should join them for dinner and then we’d go to class. I took my duties very seriously, wanting to help him by making just the right impression. What should I wear? How should I behave? Making the upcoming interview more anxiety-inducing was the fact that my ex had left the day before, and the effort to remain pleasant had used up every last ounce of emotional energy in my body. In short, I was a wreck. Wreck or not, my dance buddy had an important meeting and I was determined to do my best for him. He picked me up and headed east, which seemed a little strange as the factory that hired him was west. But he explained that the bosses were working nearby and had opted to meet at the Spaghetti Factory in Duarte. When we arrived, he dashed through the restaurant ahead of me. I did my best to keep up with him. That’s what we did as a rule. He’d dash and I’d trot after. Turning a corner, he entered a large private room and stepped to the side so that I almost barged into a table filled with people I knew. Most of of the people I knew. They all smiled at me in glee and yelled, “Surprise!” My first thought was that they found out the ex had departed and were gathering for a celebratory meal … and wasn’t that sort of sad. Then I noticed birthday balloons tied to a portable potty for elderly adults. “Happy 70th Birthday!” Gaily wrapped presents were swept off the potty as I was escorted to it. What was happening? Where were the businessmen? Why was everyone beaming at me? It wasn’t my birthday. I wasn’t even 60. What hellhole had I fallen into? My voice left me and I began to quake. Then I noticed C, who was coming forward to congratulate me. Wait! What date was it? It was my birthday date. Right date; wrong month. He’d done this. C had done this to me. He’d planned a surprise Very Happy Unbirthday to me and turned it into a 70th as icing on the cake. It was intended for family only, but my coworkers got wind of it so they all showed up. I think we had more than 23 people celebrating the wrong month and year on the 23rd of July. They led me to the potty throne. I was expected to open presents. Before that I had to make a speech, explaining to my coworkers why they were there. The first present was a box of Depends and a gift certificate to Walmart. After that, I was cooked, fried, bereft of words or strength to open any more cards and shaking too hard to unwrap any more gifts. I gave up and collapsed on the potty. The waiter made a point of telling me I looked very good for my age. Thank you. I saw the photos. I looked like I was about to die of anorexia. As C began to realize he was on the verge of killing off his Aunty Beau, he started to feel a little remorse. Maybe a lot. (Who is Aunty Beau, you ask? That title was thanks to his older brother who, as a youngster, decided I looked like Bozo the Clown with my curly red hair. He started the tradition of calling me Aunty Bo which I later changed to Beau, because, you know.) At the end of the party, the niece who’d provided the potty chair wheeled it to her car in company with my dance partner, me, and a stack of unopened gifts. We laughed and called it a good evening, while the waiters and waitresses wished me a happy 70th and asked if I needed to ride in the potty or if I could walk to my car unassisted. All the way home, my beloved dance partner explained the complete system of metal plating electrolysis, speaking in a very low, soft, monotonous timbre, allowing me to remain silent. It was just exactly the soothing nerdy fix I needed. I lived. I made everyone swear a solemn oath they would never throw me a surprise or any sort of birthday party as long as I continued to live. They were right. C was the stronger game player. However, knowing that at heart he is really one big mushy ball of sentimentality, I got even by telling him I added him as number three on the “pull the plug on Aunty Beau” directives for Kaiser. My children have sworn when the time comes, they’ll tell him they can’t bring themselves to do it; he will have to be the one to make Aunty kick the bucket. I win!