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2002:February:8
2.8.2002
mmmmm I love birthdays. It was always such a joke that I loved my birthday in my family. Legend has it, I would make the invite list for my next birthday as soon as my party was over.
Once we had a make-your-own sundae party in grade 5 and there was a fight over mitra pouring pop into the ice-cream sundae belonging to Pamela (who was known to be hyperactive). Pam proceeded to get a raging sugar high, knocked over a house plant and got her finger caught in the bathroom door. It ended in tears, but the party rawked, culminating with us listeining to my new Michael Jackson record with Vincent Price's Thriller soliloquy in a dark basement filled with a rapt audience of screaming girls.
Birthdays meant something so huge in elementary school. Ask yoursefl: do you still remember the birthdays of the kids inyour elementary school class? I kind of do. I also remember (and this was before I heard of astrology) how people woudl *feel* like September or March or whatever month they were born. There was a visual image or color that accompanied every month and every kid would get associated with their birth month adn the visual I attached to that month, which is probably why I still remember things like Stacey was April and David was March. And I have not seen those people for 20 years!
Does this sound hopelessly flakey?
The worst birthday I had was my 26th, when I shlepped around NYC with my sis and her obnoxious, aggressively-relaxed Israeli boyfriend. He was soooo annoying. He kept telling me to "relaaaax." We all fought bitterly that night. No fun at all, I tell you.
It also occurred to me at 26 that it was too late--I was never going to be a Wunderkind of any sort.
Thanks to everyone who sent me b-day greetings! I had an awesome day with Adam, sleeping in, exchanging prezzies, and sipping coffee in bed.
I got Adam a hockey stick as one of his gifts, and ladies, if you ever want to get noticed by men, carry a hockeystick. If you can't find one, borrow it!
I guess that those guys thought: mmm, girl. I like girls. mmmm hockey. I like hockey. wow. a girl with hockey stick. Thank you, God. Or something like that.
I have not been the recipient of such wistul gazes since I rode around on a bike with low handles in a sundress with a scoop neck one day in Montreal, inadvertently exposing myself to a bunch of Greek men leaving church on Ave du Parc.
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