“Doctor I get heartburn every time I eat birthday cake.”

“Well, next time take off the candles.”

When we are young we live for birthdays.  Each new year is like opening a new window into what we perceive as something greater than the year before.  When we are eight, we just know things will be so much greater the second we turn nine.  Usually we are a bit disappointed, as nine doesn’t feel all that much different than eight, but every now and again a milestone birthday hits, and bang we are different.

When we turn 13, we are suddenly a “teenager” and with that comes a whole new perceived respect.   18 gives us the right to vote, and the power to have a small part in shaping our great nation.  And what I think is the last great milestone birthday, 21, when we have the right to walk into any pub, slap down $20.00 and legally order a beer.

Then comes the other end of the milestone birthdays.  The birthdays that we dread, the ones that we lie about.  First comes 30, which is the first step to the end of our youth.  Next, of course, is 40 when we officially hit the middle of our life.  65, gives us senior status and the right to Medicare and ten percent off at the movie theater.  Yippy.

For most people 16 is the darling of the milestone birthdays.  At least it was for me.  I felt so close to being an adult.  I got my driver’s license, my first car, and the first real sense of freedom and I was slap happy with the possibilities that came along with that.

Sweet 16 and never been kissed.  Isn’t that how the saying goes?  Well, by that birthday I had been kissed, a few times, but I had not seen a penis.

I am a Sagittarius, which means that my birthday falls painfully close to the alleged birth of Jesus.  Sharing a birthday month with the divine is nothing more than a rip-off.   In grade school my birthday parties consisted of only a few friends, and all of my gifts wrapped in Christmas paper.   So I was determined to have one special birthday party – one that none of my friends would ever forget.  That one was going to be birthday number 16, and my dad Mim* was going to help.

Here was the plan. Seven of my closest girlfriends and I were going to spend a fun-filled weekend in the city of Chicago.  We were going to shop, sight-see, have a nice dinner, and see a show…all the things that we could think of to do that would make us feel very grown up.

After a day of shopping, our arms loaded with purchases, we crowded into two luxurious rooms at the Mitz Marlton*, a posh hotel in the center of the city’s famed Magnificent Mile.

Extra care was taken getting ready for the big Saturday night out on the town.  We donned fancy dresses and strapped on fancy high heals and headed out for a lovely dinner where a popular birthday song was sung, and candle flames extinguished.  All eight of us sipped Shirley Temples, and chatted gleefully.  We never felt more like real adults than that evening.

My father thought it would be really special to get us tickets to a play.  Most of us had been limited to only viewing plays performed at school.  Nothing could seem more grown-up than going to a real off-Broadway play. Sitting in the front row of the small 100-seat theatre, we were poised and ready for our first real professional taste of drama.

My father is the type of person who is very well-read, but does not always read well.  He has a history of only reading the first couple of lines of a play’s description before committing to purchasing tickets.  There was the time that he took my 86-year-old Catholic aunt to a play that he thought was a very romantic love story.  Had he read further, he would have found out that it was actually an all-nude play about a young boy’s first homosexual love.   Then there was the time that he took eight giddy 16-year-old girls to a play about a high school basketball team.  Had he read further into the description of the play he would have noticed that the whole play took place in the boy’s locker room.

That night of my sixteenth birthday, eight mature young women dressed in their very best entered the small 100-seat theater and took their seats, the house lights went down and the stage lights went on.  Eight very attractive twenty-something men dressed in basketball uniforms posing as teenagers came in stage right and promptly stripped down to their jock straps.  Eight young jaws in the front row dropped and the childish giggling began. And during the very dramatic scene when the main character, Mob* took his jock strap off and threw it out into the audience, the eight girls sitting in the front row got a close up view of our first penis.  We were shocked, at first, then erupted into gales of adolescent laughter.

My sixteenth birthday, a milestone indeed.  You see it was the year I got to see my very first adult penis.  One that I will never forget.  The birthday, and the dick.

Watching the “Moday Mhow”* a few weeks ago, I saw a story on people who are professional caretakers.  These folks live in exotic locales, taking care of other people’s properties in exchange for free room and board.  The woman interviewed for the segment raved about her wonderful life, caring for a mansion that overlooks the San Francisco Bay.  Her duties are cooking, laundry and general housekeeping.  During a month, she said, she’ll work a couple of 12-hour days or so, but otherwise the majority of her time is her own.

For a moment, the idea of chucking it all and going to live somewhere completely different, and doing a bit of manual labor, appealed to me.  I could dust a little, I fantasized, and then write my novel while looking out over Sydney Harbor.  Or maybe I could pull a few weeds and then spend my days crafting sunny tales on a Bahamian patio.  I could polish the armor in a Scottish castle, perhaps, or chop wood for a cottage deep in the Bavarian woods. The inspiration would be phenomenal.  I signed up on the spot for a year’s subscription to the professional housekeeper’s paper, the “Maretaker Mazette.”*

Each week now, I get listings for available caretaker positions around the world.  After the first few arrived, I quickly realized that I am not even remotely equipped to handle any of these situations.  I don’t do landscaping, plumbing, electrical, or pool up-keep.  I certainly couldn’t be depended upon to do any cooking, housekeeping, or nannying.  And the listings themselves are not quite as appealing as I had imagined.

HOUSESITTER NEEDED for two weeks in XX, Mexico for an elderly friend with two cats and a small dog. The house is fully equipped with a king-size bed. A car is available. She will need a ride to the airport and then picked up for her class reunion.

Great, so I’d be spending two weeks sitting in a stinky, cat-filled house in a tiny Mexican town, waiting to pick some old lady up after her 80^th class reunion.  Glad it’s fully equipped with a queen-size bed at least…

YEAR-ROUND HOUSESITTER wanted in Bulgaria, preferably through the winter. This is not for the faint-hearted and it is a hard lifestyle. We live in a rural setting in a village with very basic living conditions. There is one village shop and three bars. Winters are extremely harsh and we need someone to stay in our house because it is for sale and is in the process of being renovated, but all the work has stopped so it is unfinished at the moment. The house has a swimming pool. Hardly any of the villagers speak English. We cannot provide any transport but there are local buses and taxis.

Are you kidding me? I’d be hanging out in an unfinished house, freezing my a** off for an entire Bulgarian winter, taking buses to places where no one speaks English??? Well, thank goodness they have a pool…sounds very inviting.

HOUSESITTER/LANDSCAPER needed in XX, a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. We are looking for a housesitter to maintain both our house and gardens while we are away this winter. Our private house, including utilities, is offered to stay in for free in exchange for several hours a day of taking care of our gardening needs. Our preference is for a single, non-smoking person, who is financially secure since we are not offering any compensation for this position. Please email your interest and reasons for wanting to take this three month housesitting assignment.

“Uh, I just robbed a bank and am looking for a place to hide out for three months?” Who else would want to live in a suburb outside Birmingham, not get paid and do nothing but watch the grass grow?

One look at the “Positions Wanted” listings and I should have known this caretaker life wasn’t for me.  Here’s a sample of one couple’s qualifications…

Christian couple from Montana relocating to Redding, California area. Ages 56 and 51. Seeking a caretaker position or other possibilities. Background is residential building contractor. All phases. Maintenance manager for large camp. Animals and horse experience. Grounds maintenance. No children. Great references.

I tried writing my own ad, just for fun.

Lazy Jewish girl (44) from Hollywood, CA seeks to live somewhere beautiful and not do much work.  Good at loading dishwashers and washing machines but doesn’t like putting stuff away. Experience is mostly in reading, writing and watching TV.  Hands are soft and back is weak. Likes nice doggies, hates cats and is expert at killing plants of all kinds. Has lots of Facebook friends who will provide good references if they’ve been drinking.

While realistically I know I will never rent my house out and toss my glamorous Los Angeles lifestyle (HA!) to go live in Bolivia, there is a small part of me that looks forward to receiving the listings.  As odd as they are, they’re real opportunities, and maybe one day the perfect one will be amongst all the oddballs.

YEAR-ROUND HOUSESITTER NEEDED IN ITALY to care for an enormous Tuscan villa.  Must like wine, olive oil and cute Italian men who work on the property harvesting crops.  Some light grape-stomping and pasta cooking required.  Respond to Vito.

I’ll take it!

Illustration Credit: Kendra Schwabel