I had a BIG OLD case of writer’s block trying to start this
post. I was staring blankly at my iTunes wishing I could write when I thought,
“OH, I should listen to some Squirrel Nut Zippers! That’ll help! So help me God, I don’t know what my logic was there.
My twenty-seventh birthday is November 25th,
2011. I will officially be in my late twenties. This struck home the other day
when I realized that early episodes of “Friends” were about people my age or
marginally younger. This revelation was followed by “Oh, God. I hope I’m not Ross.”
Advanced degree in something obscure? Check. “Not conventionally attractive,”
in an ethnic way? Provided “cracker” counts as ethnic, check. Obsessed with a
Jewish waitress? No, but it’s the kind of thing that WOULD happen to me. Let me
warn you: figuring out that you’re a louder, bawdier, drunker, more
Episcopalian David Schwimmer doesn’t
make aging any easier.
It’s also going to be a sad birthday because Mom doesn’t
have a phone. (“AT&T says I owe them three hundred dollars! We’ll see who
gives in first.”) Mine was, apparently, a difficult birth, which my mother
lovingly recounts every year like a war story. “Oh, around this time eight
years ago, the midwife said she couldn’t do it, we’d have to go to the
hospital.” “Twelve years ago, we were driving to the hospital in the sleet!” (This is a bigger deal in
Texas than you might think.) “Sixteen years ago, the doctor told me he didn’t
need to do an episiotomy, it was already torn.” I’ll spare you the details of
“I had cold sores all over my face” and the destruction my skull allegedly
wrought on her tailbone. Anyway, the story of The Birth is very much a part of
my birthday, much like the recitations of the Ten Plagues are central to
Passover. It’ll be sad not to hear it this year.
Being born on or near Thanksgiving, predictably, sucks. Not
only does it mean I was conceived on Valentine’s Day, but no one ever is around
or in the mood to do anything on my birthday. I used to sulk about this, but
this year I’ve taken the opportunity to create Birthday Week:
Thursday November 24: Thanksgiving. I get a turkey leg
because it’s “almost my birthday.”
Friday November 25: Actual Birthday. Giant Camel, Meg, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, “some of the West Philly hipster queers if they’re around,” and I are
going to Ethiopian food, bowling, and the gay piano bar. Can you imagine? A gay
piano bar AFTER a holiday and DURING a three day weekend? “Okay. Ooooookay.
We’re going to have a drink, then we’re going to do ‘Thank You For Being a
Friend’ again, then another drink, then ‘Those Were the Days,’ then drink, then
‘Moon River.’”
Saturday November 26: GWAAAAAAR! I love Gwar, and if you
don’t, fuck you.
Sunday November 27: Rest; cake.
Monday November 28: “Alternate” birthday for people who were
out of town for Actual Birthday. Saints play Giants. A shot for every
touchdown, field goal, or safety. Will there be black and gold temporary hair
color? Is the Pope a shithead?
Tuesday November 29: Write obscene fan mail to Zachary
Quinto. LIBERAL use of construction paper.
Wednesday November 30: Rest; eat entire Whitman’s sampler in
bed.
Thursday December 1: Philadelphia’s premier lesbian bar,
Sisters, has a Thursday special: for ten bucks you get eight drink tickets and
access to the buffet.
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