I say it's my birthday

Wednesday, jun. 18, 2008   |   0 comments

Six layers of hamburger-identified chocolate and cream and airbrushed crunchy-lard frosting, courtesy of the Merritt Bakery in Oakland. And there are more fun birthday pics to be found over at the websites of Eric and Maggie.

I was born thirty-eight whole years ago today, at about 12:50 in the afternoon. It’s true! As my mother tells it, they celebrated the moment with a festive summer lunch of champagne and raspberries, smuggled into the hospital by my father. I’ve always love that little detail, my bearded dad tiptoeing down the White Halls of Labor with berries hidden under his Goodwill tweed.

And then my parents got divorced. And the hospital burned down. And my teeth grew in crooked. And then I knocked them out horsing around inside in slippery socks. But other than that (and the epic earthquakes, and the car fire, and the rug fire, and the layoffs, and the exploded appendix, and the getting caught stealing when I was five), these first thirty-eight years have actually been a pretty great!

Except that it sure doesn’t feel like thirty-eight. Like just last week, when strep grabbed me by the throat and I was forced to finally go in and meet my new primary care physician (a nervous giggler with a strangely appealing case of social retardation), the new-patient form asked me how old I was, and without hesitating, I wrote “27.” Twenty-seven! That truly is how old my brain thinks it is! But then I started listing all my ailments – the bunions and the alcohol intolerance and the weight gain and the patchy skin – and I went from feeling 27 to 907 in five seconds flat.

It didn’t really help much that my hypochondriac’s dream of a doctor answered each one of my concerns with an almost comically depressing three-alarm answer. In response to the sight of my blotchy face skin: “So, is that cancer?” About my new and great intolerance to alcohol: “We better check you for liver failure. And diabetes.” And in response to absolutely nothing at all: “Let’s check to see if your eggs are still viable. After all you are 37, so if it isn’t already too late [to have kids? to be a young genius? to become an Olympic gymnast?], you better find out if it’s time to start hurrying, right?” Right!

Me and my rotten eggs are celebrating our goodbye to 37 (sort of a blah year, I’d say) with a hamburger party, which as those of you who have thrown your own hamburger parties know, involves a large, lard-frosted cake dyed and sculpted to look exactly like a gigantic hamburger, plus ten full pounds of beef.

It’s my opinion that any year that begins with gross amounts of beef (both real and cake varietals) is bound to be mighty. And I really do have high hopes for thirty-eight, what with all the fun I already have lined up on my horizon. Just look:

• This weekend I get to hang out in scenic Humboldt County with my favorite Kristin!
• Fourth of July weekend it’s to Russian River with Annie and Eric!
• Saturday, July 19, I’m scheduled to appear on Maggie’s panel at Blogher alongside Sarah and Melissa, two ladies I’ve long admired and whom I am just Christmas-morning eee!xcited to actually finally flesh-meet!
• Early August: Yosemite with Jill and Caroleen? Maybe? If I can get the time off work?
• Late August: My 20th high school reunion (I actually wouldn’t say I’m looking forward to this, per se, but it just has to be better than last time, right?). October: To Brooklyn to see Todd and Lisa get nupped! My heart is already swollen in anticipation of this one. And I already have my dress all picked out and dry cleaned! I am ready! Let’s go!

But first: Ten whole pounds of all-beef patty fun.