By Alexandra Kloster, Pass the Hot Dish

“Caitlin Mae! Are you wearing my unmentionables?”

“Well, now that you mention it …”

Friday, Jan. 21, was the day I would start getting some respect. The Mayans have their “we are all in big trouble” calendar, and I have my “I will be swung upside down by my ankles no more!” calendar, which declared that on my 40th birthday all my kin of the kid and dog variety would start saying things like, “Aunt Ali, you are one swell gal and we hold you in high esteem,” or “Aunt Ali, we boys will never tease you or taunt you, and we girls and dogs will never borrow your clothes (especially your special under-girl delicates) without asking.” Then the boys would bow and the girls and dogs would curtsey.

Yes, 40 would be the year I became “Aunt Ali” instead of “Al.” Where better to celebrate than in the underdeveloped bosom of my family? Graham, the dogs and I made the long trek to the far east, Elk Rapids, Mich., so I could enjoy my new rank and standing in person. All the dogs, minus one, Huey, and all the kids, minus one, Annie, would be there.

I started to think my fancy, fortune-telling calendar was about as accurate as the Mayans’ when we pulled in the driveway and the first people I saw were Jesse and Herman. Jesse is the oldest of my nieces and nephews, and Herman is his dachshund who has the longest body I’ve ever seen. He looks like he’s spent his whole life on the rack.

“Here, take Herman. He hasn’t gone to the bathroom in 14 hours,” Jesse said, clearly meaning, “Happy birthday.”

“How do you know?” I asked, “His rear end is a half a mile away.” Little did I know Herman was just hoarding ammunition to use against Sidney, my Yorkie, and Herman’s arch nemesis.

Put a Yorkshire terrier, a dachshund and two Pomeranians in the same house and you’ve got 16 paws’ worth of Napoleon complex, but Sidney and Herman are the worst, constantly trying to one up each other in every way.

“Stop barking! I am 40 years old!” I yelled as I walked in the house. I figured I’d start throwing my age around early so everyone could get used to the new me. Clearly the dogs didn’t get it because the next words out of my mouth were, “You have to go outside if you’re going to do that! Do you hear me? I’m 40 years old!” But no, they kept marking over each other’s territory well into the weekend.

Drip, drip, drip every five minutes. It was like England and Germany all over again. You had to redraw the map of the house every few hours just to see who controlled what territory.

The Pomeranians, Rocky and Gizmo, wanted no part in any of this. They’re pacifist intelligentsia who sit around smoking cigarettes complaining about the bourgeoisie. Claiming no territory for their own, we forgot they were there, much like their homeland Pomerania. The only time one of the Poms was heard from was when poor, top-heavy Rocky tumbled down the stairs Saturday morning. He came out of it only partially concussed, and it did provide a warm moment when mortal enemies Sidney and Herman came together in a raging case of Schadenfreude.

I knew trying to win the dogs’ respect was futile that night at dinner when my mother-in-law innocently asked, “Does he like pizza?”

Why, yes, yes, Herman does like pizza when you hold a piece six inches above his head. Herman’s teeth appeared out of nowhere (and his hind legs 20 minutes later) and snatched the pizza right out of her hand, attempting to take a few fingers with him. Anybody but my mother-in-law, Herman. Really. Anyone.

“Hey you! Dog!” I chased after him. “Sprechen Sie Deutch? Yeah, that’s right. You can’t biss meine Schwiegermutter! Ich bin 40 years old!”

Herman just laughed at me like Muttley from Wacky Racers. Gizmo and Rocky paid no attention at all as they were still working on being cerebral isolationists by wearing turtlenecks and chasing their tails.

Where I failed with the dogs, I tried to succeed with the kids.

To Caitlin: “You can’t steal clothes from a 40-year-old! Or underwear! Or my toothbrush!”

She flashed a newly clean smile. “Yes I can. Did I get the corn out of my teeth?”

To Frankie as he held me upside down: “Come on, man! I’m middle-aged!”

To every word that Jesse said to me for two days: “Forty! Did you hear me? Forty!”

Machine-gun laughter from Jesse, “Not to me you’re not.”

It’s true. Jesse and I made each other laugh 32 years ago when he was still in his crib and the joke has never really ended. It’s only grown as Frankie, Caitlin and Annie were added to the mix of inexhaustible, hilarious, pandemonium.

People say 40 is the new 30 or 25. To me 40 is the same lucky, the same funny, the same love and, yes, the same respect that my nieces, nephews and I have for one another. It’s the same old them and the same old me. I call them my heart and they can call me, Al.

Woodbury resident Alexandra Kloster appears each Sunday. She may be reached at alikloster@yahoo.com and her blog is Radishes at Dawn at alexandrakloster.com.