(Alright, maybe not for just daveto. Still, he is daveto. Plus, I need to update this blog so people don’t think I’m dead. [I’m not?])

On Saturday, October 13th, 2007, I was kidnapped, tortured, and left for dead.

Let me back up.

On Monday, October 15th, 2007, I was to turn 40. As is my new birthday tradition, my plans that night were to get drunk, stoned, maudlin and melancholy, and watch Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story. Good times.

On Saturday, October 13th, 2007, I was asked, at the risk of giving away what it is that I do for a living, to be at the Hilton off 280 to get “copy” on a guy who was winning some award of excellence from a bank or something. I.e., I was doing my boss a favor.

When I got to the conference room of the Hilton where a small ceremony was to take place, I was shoved into a corner where a piano was by someone I work with a lot. I had no idea what was going on. My first thought was my “friend” had assembled several people I didn’t know so that I could play the piano for them like a trained monkey. He was sort of right.

When I slowly looked up and around, I noticed there was indeed some sort of presentation going on. Someone was giving what looked to be a power point talk about a missing person. Well, the power point presenter was my oldest brother, and the missing person was me.

That’s when I realized that my entire family — my older sister, my 3 older brothers, my mom, my brother-in-law, 2 sisters-in-law, and each and every one of my nieces and nephews save 2 — was there. They’d all come down to surprise yours truly on my 40th birthday. And boy did they ever.

My oldest brother continued his talk about where I could possibly be, all the while ignoring me. His 2 daughters came to the podium while “Fire And Rain” played; they’d inserted pictures of me as a kid into pictures of them growing up. My other 2 brothers came up with guitars in hand to plead with everyone to be on the lookout for me. The one who’s a genius at rewriting the words to songs actually looked over at me there, sitting at the piano, and said, “Hey. Mac. Do you know how to work one of those things? We’re doing a little D/C/G number, so maybe fill in the dead spots? Thanks.” They performed “Can’t You See What This Woman’s Been Doing To Me”, having changed the words to inside jokes, because the woman in question was our mom, clearly, when pictures of all the kids were shown with terrible haircuts and even worse glasses over the years, while they played guitars and sang.

Then my sister, who’d been sobbing the entire time and using a table cloth as a hanky, came up with some search tools: cases of bottled water with a label that had a picture of me when I was about 7, and an artist’s (a niece’s) rendition of what I might look like today (it was uncanny) along with the phrase, “Have you seen me?”; a bright, neon-green T-shirt with the same water bottle label; and wanted posters of me.

Then the feigned and exuberant recognition by all of them of their baby brother.

You see, I constantly miss summer gatherings and holidays with my family because I’m selfish and unthinking. Well, they’d had enough and brought the party from Ohio down to The Ham.

Then my mom gave me my birthday present. Know what it was? It was the popcorn popper, the very one, that one, that dad used to make popcorn. And the giant tomato canning bowl that went with it. It looked smaller.

I was moved beyond words. Beyond words. I couldn’t speak. (Apparently they’d read about popcorn somewhere.)

Then the cake was produced with the following written on it:
“Calling your mom: $0.97.
Driving home for for a family gathering: $67.00
Having your family come to you on your 40th:
Priceless
Happy Birthday”

The rest of the evening was spent laughing, hugging, crying. But mostly laughing. I have a very funny family.

I had to leave because I’d left the dogs out because the “job” was to have taken little more than 20 minutes.

The next day I went back and visited with everyone until they had to take the airport shuttle to catch flights. My mom stayed over. We visited all Sunday afternoon and evening at the house. The next day I went to work. Her flight left at 4ish, so I took a long lunch, at my boss’s insistence. We talked, laughed, cried a little. And off she was back home.

One of the best birthdays I’ve ever had, and I despise birthdays. And it was a perfect, perfect gift. As my mom was getting out of the car at the airport, she said, “You know, it’s just a popper. You don’t have to attribute anything more than you have to to it. What’ll you do?” And I said, “I’ll probably use it to make popcorn. If I ever have a stove again.” She laughed.

Reminded me how blessed I was to have had an excellent upbringing and how much I miss my family. That’s a good thing.

quiblit