"It is. Who's this?"
"The woman who birthed you after many long, agonizing hours, only to have you arrive with a pointy head that sent panic through the maternity ward."
"I would like to point out that I no longer have a pointy head."
"Do you think your gorgeous wife from France would've married you if you still had a pointy head?"
"Let me ask her... My mother wants to know if you would've married me if I had a pointy head?"
"What's her answer?"
"She says she'll have to get back to me."
"Smart girl. Now then, my son. May I sing you a little song I wrote on your behalf?"
"If you must."
"It goes something like this: 'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy... how can you be 30 when I'm only 39?... birthday, dear B.B., happy birthday to you. And many more."
"Thank you, Mother."
"You're welcome, my son."
"See you tonight."
"Do you think the restaurant will mind if I do an interpretative hora in your honor?"
"They might."
"I just want to hora 'round our table 30 times. Oh, and one more time for good luck. So 31 times. That's all."
"Sounds good. Tell us how it goes."
"What do you mean, my son?"
"We'll be at an undisclosed location till it's over."
"Smart boy."
"Now that I'm 30, Mother, I prefer smart man."
"And when you're 40, you'll prefer smart boy. Trust me on this."
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