Lordy, Lordy, I Hate That Phrase

My in-laws tried last night to have a little fun. Too bad they’re the only ones laughing.

You see, the lovely Mrs. G. and I both turn 40 next week – she on Wednesday, and me a mere 48 hours later. (Yes, I married an older woman. Two days older, but still...) And Mrs. G’s parents had been acting kind of goofy about the whole thing; we halfway expected them to show up unannounced on our front door next Wednesday to “surprise!” her. (They live 1,000 miles away.) Ah, but Mrs. G. and I are escaping town next week for a couple of days – to go hide amongst people who don’t know our ages. So if the in-laws did come a-calling, I suppose they’d have to sit on the front porch for 5 days, unless Miss Katie happens to stop home briefly in between her 23-hours-a-day summer running around schedule.

But instead of showing up in person, my in-laws and Mrs. G.’s aunt JoAnn did the “next best thing” – they bought one of those dumb classified ads in the local newspaper. You know the ones – where they run your picture and include the most hated phrase in the world:

“Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s 40!”
Happy 40th Birthday Mrs. G. and Tommy

Ugh. Of all the phrases in the world that I LOATHE, “Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s 40” is right up there. In fact, my Top 5 Most Hated Phrases in the World are:

5 – “Sorry, you are not a winner.”
4 – “Tommy, we need to talk.”
3 – “Dads & Grads”
2 – “Stocking Stuffers”
1 – Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s 40.

I’ve always hated that expression, long before I began to approach the fateful day. The only thing worse than being told that all day long would be spending your 40th birthday hearing that while surrounded by Black Balloons.

Tell me -- who honestly thinks this shit is funny?

I can’t help but think back to my friend Donna’s 40th birthday – September 16, 1989. She and I worked together for years, but I had just recently left the company to go work for a guy who turned out to be a gigantic scumbag/thief. But that’s a tale for another day.

Anyway, the night before Donna’s Big Day, the rest of our co-workers thought it’d be fun to decorate her small office with black streamers. Then someone broke out the El Markos and made the omnipresent “Lordy Lordy” sign. Then someone else ran out to the store and bought...black balloons. Those inflated, they were satisfied that her office would be 100% respectably embarrassing.

Then someone had a bright idea. Why stop there? If a dozen black balloons taped to her office walls looked good, why – filling the entire office up to the ceiling with black balloons would LOOK EVEN BETTER!

So my friends and former co-workers, a crew of about 40 people, (including the Lovely Mrs. G., long before she was “Mrs. G.”, by the way – see how well we got along as co-workers?) spent the rest of the evening ignoring their job duties and blowing up hundreds and hundreds of balloons. They wiped the nearby party supply store out of black balloons, and started using scuba tanks to help inflate the balloons when their little comedic lips got tired.

Four hours later, Donna’s office was literally filled to the brim with balloons. Hardy har frickin’ har.

So the next morning Donna comes to work, pretends to be impressed while keeping her rude “Goddammit – why’d they do this?” comments to herself, and then gets on the phone to someone as she tries to ignore that there are several feet of balloons crammed into her little glass-windowed office.

While she was on the phone, one of her employees (and one of my best friends from way back when) decided that he would do something that was sure to be both really, really fun and something he’d always wanted to try – he’d jump into a room filled of balloons. It’d be like a giant ball pit at McDonalds, only more fun, right?

So John took a running start, leaped through the air, and dived headfirst into the balloons. Wheeee!

Now, as anyone who has ever taken Physics 101 (or has ever played with a balloon) can tell you, balloons like to move around, especially since they’re practically lighter than air and extremely elastic. So when John hit the pile of balloons headfirst, did they cushion him ever so gently? Nope. They parted right down the middle, and gravity took over. As he plummeted towards Earth, John’s forehead smacked into the edge of Donna’s credenza, which was nowhere near as soft as he probably hoped it would be.

Blood. Screaming. A panicked 911 call. A pretty ambulance ride. 47 stitches in Johnny’s forehead. That’s how Donna’s 40th birthday was celebrated.

Lordy, Lordy, indeed.

Now, I found this out much later in the day when I stopped by the office to see Donna and (attempt) to wish her Happy Birthday. There she was, sitting at her desk, which was surrounded by little scraps of black latex that hadn’t been picked up yet. (Someone had wisely taken a sharp pair of scissors to the balloons. The party was definitely over.) She was power smoking a cigarette, and from the packed ashtray in front of her, it was obvious that she’d been at it for quite a while. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were huge.

After listening to Donna’s tale (and watching her suck down a couple more cigs), I looked her deep in the eyes and told her the only thing I could think of at a moment like that:

“I just want you to know...I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with this.”

And it was true – I’d heard about the fun the night before, but you wouldn’t find my DNA inside any of those black balloons. Of course, Donna didn’t believe me – I still think she doubts my denial to this day – but it was 100% true.

So here I am, 16 years later, still friends with Donna, John, and many of those same people from way back when. John still has a pretty good scar on his forehead from the 47 stitches, and being the sympathetic people we were, we insisted on calling him “Frankenstein” for the next few months.

As for Donna, I think that her 40th was the last birthday she ever “celebrated”. We’ve all vowed to never, ever mention the black balloon story again in her presence, unless she happens to bring it up first. And then we’d better have a pack of smokes handy.

And now here it is – Mrs. G.’s and my turns for the Big Four-Oh. We won’t be celebrating with our current co-workers, but never fear: we won’t be totally alone. Mrs. G. and I are driving up to Wisconsin next weekend to see Donna and her husband Mike for a couple of days.

God, I hope she doesn’t have any you-know-whats waiting for us.