As we were driving to the new Greek restaurant, Elaia Estiatorio, in Bridgehampton on the evening of her birthday, I told Mary, who makes no bones about not liking feta cheese, that she could do nothing about it, that it was a “feta compli.”
When I told Russell Bennett that, he asked, “What do you call someone addressing angry dolphins?”
I gave up.
“Talking at cross porpoises.”
Actually, there were many good-tasting things at the Greek restaurant that did not have feta cheese in them. We ate well, and afterward, though she cringed as the staff readied themselves in an anteroom, knowing she was in for it, it being her birthday, Mary was serenaded with hip-swiveling bouzouki music, a flare in a champagne glass sparkling in front of her. Everyone, the diners, the bar crowd, joined in.
May is a good time for birthdays, with nature unfurling and fecund and all that. There are a number of other May babies in our family, including my sister, my first cousin, two of our daughters, and one of our grandsons. And I was conceived in May, a propitious time for impregnating, you’ll agree. As is just about any time, though they say a couple of days after Christmas is optimum in that regard, which accounts for the abundance of September offspring, Virgos, who, while sensible, practical, and loyal, tend to be perfectionists, which can be annoying, especially if you’re in this business.
For some reason, The Star’s staff used to be chock-full of Aquarians, so many, in fact, that we used to celebrate ourselves every February, once even at the Palm. They say some of us tend to think of ourselves as exceptional, and perhaps that is why I’m intrigued by the fact that I’ve been diagnosed with paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia. I had thought initially that it was simply s.v.t., which led me to think that the closing salutation of all my emails henceforth should be “Your obedient s’v’t.” Until I learned that what I had was actually p.s.v.t. It’s hard to get more exceptional than that.
They tried to fix it this week, running a wire up through the femoral vein into my sometimes-out-of-sync heart, but, unable to produce the arrhythmia that occurs about once a month, had to withdraw. It’s quite audacious when you think of it, and before undergoing the procedure I made sure, following Mary’s advice, that the doctor and anesthesiologist took what Medicare and my supplemental insurance paid. Without those assurances I might have set myself up for a heart attack when I saw the bill for the arrhythmia cure.
Keep moving, we are told. Keep laughing too.