59 (already?)
by Stephanie Kemp





July 28, 2026
(EOD)*

I woke up at 5:31am.
RIPE.

How can it be my birthday, AGAIN?! (I demanded of no-one.)

I have never been a big birthday girl (parties, people, cake, candles, etc), but I have always secretly loved July, 28, 1967, especially because I didn’t learn about the Detroit riots until much, much, (much) later.

Determined to steer the day out of pervasive pessimism (and potential meanness), I got up and started making things (for other people):

Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Yellow Cupcakes with chocolate frosting.

Frozen Yogurt Donuts (vanilla with cherries, dark chocolate and sea salt).

Candle and Match Stick bundles for my friends to make a wish on.

I do some version of this most years. (On the 4th of July, I like to make and deliver tiny cheesecakes to my neighbors….On Christmas Day I make banana bread and coffee cake, going out into the world and sharing them with any stranger willing to accept or in need of baked goods from a stranger.)

So, on this day (still July 28, 2026), I mixed and melted and baked and cooled and frosted and sprinkled and froze.

(Also, on my birthday, I miss my mom.)

By 9:09 am (when the first daughter woke up), I was recognizable.

By 10:46 (when the second one arrived in the kitchen), I was completely rebooted.

Especially because both girls wanted to deliver the goods with me and then go to the beach for a walk (me) and get some sun (them) with a dash of playing in the waves (everyone) before heading home for:

delicious cheese,
crunchy bread,
boquerones,
freezing dry white wine... 

...all procured and prepared by my husband, who has somehow gotten his daughters - and wife! - to love boquerones.

The great thing about my birthday deliveries is that I never know who will get them. (It has never occurred to me, until just now, that anyone - anywhere - might not want them.)

This year I had high hopes of hitting at least ten stops, but only made it to three before the cupcakes started melting, the cookies slid onto the floor of the back seat and traffic to the beach kept ticking up by about eleven minutes a mile.

But the three drop offs couldn’t have gone better:

First: My Easiest and Closest Friend, Amy, who was sick, so her son answered the door while she waved from a distance in her adorable pajamas. (Birthday Bonus: He actually needed food, because his mom was so sick!)

Next: My Favorite Person, John (and his kick ass daughter), who I miss all the time and told (to his face) that my entire family would marry him, if given the option. (My daughters were horrified by this disclosure, but my husband was fine with it and didn’t disagree.)

Finally: My No Longer Accidentally Estranged (Thank God) Friend, Karen, and her handsome hero husband, who I recently got back when we ran into each other eating dinner at 4:45pm on a Friday at our local oyster bar.



IT WAS A SOUL FUELING, QUALITY NOT QUANTITY, SPECIAL DELIVERY SITUATION ON WHAT COULD HAVE EASILY BECOME A VERY SIDEWAYS BIRTHDAY!

Once I realized I (truly) couldn’t salvage most of my baked goods for more deliveries (and because I really wanted to get to the beach), we drove west.

My daughters took turns playing music from the soundtracks of their whole lives (so far), while I drove toward the sun on the 10, smiling like the luckiest mother on the planet (which I am) and a pretty lucky person in general (which I also am, even if I do have a little cancer again, which is why I woke up so ripe).

Usually we get off the 10 at the Lincoln exit, but because traffic was light and a good song was playing (Pixies, “Here Comes Your Man”), I decided to take the 4th/5th Street exit. (I also wanted to point out and celebrate the fact that Pali High was no longer using the old Sears Building as a temporary replacement for the fire ravaged campus they were only recently allowed to moved back into.)

After an absolutely uneventful freeway exit and very smooth left turn on 4th Street, we kept driving toward Ocean Park, our favorite beach. The only strange moment from taking our alternate route was when I heard what sounded like gravel pinging the left rear side of my car. I asked my daughters if they heard it. They did, but the daughter in the backseat said, “I think it was just the tinfoil on the cookies, crackling because of the sun.”

OF COURSE!

Moments later, in a rare turn of Summer Day at the Beach events, I found street parking, just as the Pixies wrapped up and my daughters and I finished sharing a melty but delicious cupcake and two crumbled cookies.

BEST.
BIRTHDAY.
EVER.

As I started to open my car door, I saw a woman in a grey station wagon pull up to my left, stop her car in the middle of the street and motion for me to roll down my window. I was happy to do it, especially because she looked like my friend Lisa and because I thought she might want a sweet treat or a candle bundle from a stranger to make a wish.

Instead, her face turned sour and mean and she said, “Do you want to apologize to me?”

“I’m sorry……..excuse me?………For what?”

“For driving like a piece of shit.”

“....Wow.” (I somehow managed to say.)

“Yeah. It must suck being a cunt.” 

“WOW.” I did not manage to repeat. 
__________

Shock and Awe. (Me)
Silence/No Breathing. (My daughters)
Stare down. (Me and definitely not my friend, Lisa)

“CUNT!” She spit as she peeled away.

More shock.

“You know what, guys?” I shakily said to my still silent daughters...

“Let’s not park here. Let’s keep going. That was bonkers. Did I do something I didn’t realize or was she just batshit?”

“She was batshit!” (Said both daughters, in unison.)

We pulled out (of our perfect street parking spot) and headed toward our regular beach front lot. Then, about 50 yards down the road en route to Ocean Park, the right side of my car got pinged with a heavier dose of the familiar shrapnel sound that obviously hadn’t been tinfoil “crackling because of the sun.” We looked right to see CuckooBoots (who had been lying in wait), face puckered, somehow rolling up her window as she simultaneously flipped us off with two hands.

All three of us were now stunned, almost to the point of turning around and not even going to the beach.

All three of us couldn’t fucking believe this scary lady’s behavior (or figure out what I’d done to set it off).

All three of us thought (and/or said):

“What if she got our license?”
“What if she follows us?”
“What if she finds out where we live?”
“What if she has a gun?”

Not willing to let my fear get the best of me (or my daughters), I just kept driving for a minute, then two, then three, sorting out what to do or say (while making sure she wasn’t following us!).

“I know…Let’s go to Venice...We’ll shake it up…I don’t want her to ruin our day… She can’t chase us from the sun.”

“Yeah!” said one daughter, trying to get into the spirit.

“Ok. But let’s park in a structure, where she won’t be able to see our car.” said the other.

“YEAH!” Said her still trying to be spirited sister, relieved to hear me turn on my blinker into covered parking.

We went to the beach.

I walked (but mostly in tight circles on the shore, keeping my daughters in view at all times).

They got tan (but no burns!).

We all jumped in the ocean, even though only they went under water. 

I needed to make sure my daughters were safe from:

Batshitters.
Rogue waves.
Anyone who might have been inclined to steal our stuff,

Any/all other:

People
Words
Things

Moves I might (accidentally) make (without knowing it) that could endanger them.

Their mom is kicking off 59 with a bit of a wobble.

That wobble was slightly lessened by how protective two daughters were of their mom:

“BITCH!”

“You don’t get to call my mom a cunt when she is delivering baked goods and candles to her friends on her birthday WHILE she has cancer!”

“YEAH!” 

And then we got home safe and sound and the boquerones were fucking delicious, even though some of the grilled bread got a little burnt....(Better the bread than the children.)



It was actually a perfect day. Especially once I realized that the lady in the car is just a(nother) human being on today’s planet earth (probably) trying to do the best she can with (clearly) much more going on that my real or imagined traffic infraction. She deserves a wish, too.  

I made one for her.



*EOD (as used here) means, “End of Day,” not the militaristic, “Explosive Ordnance Disposal,” although that would also be appropriate, given our batshitbirthdaybeachday encounter.

It also doesn’t mean, “End of Discussion,” as I am going to write something even more optimistic next year.

Hopefully something like: 60 (Thank God!)

Watch out, Friends. I’ll be coming for you. (And I’ll have a cooler.)