The Birthday Breakdown

Someone decided to stop following my blog on my birthday. I try not to take that stuff too personally, but that is just cold. Isn't it? And I can't figure out who it was.

And here's a confession: I counted how many people on Facebook wished me a happy birthday. (55.) You might be really shocked and taken aback at that kind of narcissistic, obsessive behavior, or you might be secretly thinking "Well, doesn't everybody?" You tell me.

The birthday was really nice. It's still going on, because David will be home soon and we're going to a restaurant I really like with the in-laws. And my friend Synthia took me to lunch today and gave me a super-sparkly MAC lipstick. Oooh, new, expensive lipstick. That doesn't happen much anymore. And she said I looked skinny. And then we ate cupcakes.

I had a girls night at Lei Lounge with a few of my near and dear, and we ate fried everything and washed it all down with Peach Collinses and Watermelon Lemontinis. Mmmm, peach. Mmmm, watermelon. Mmmm, vodka. I was harshing it through my 30 minutes on the elliptical this morning--but I didn't quit early, so I rock.

While ensconced in our white leatherette cabana, blown-out coifs blazing from the heat lamps, deafened by the bachelorette lingerie madness across the way, I regaled my guests with tales of David's birthday gifts. In order, they were:

1. a green notepad. ("Huh?" "Jarrah picked it out." "Oh, thanks, sweetie--I do take a lot of notes.")
2. the latest Joss Stone CD
3. a mix tape (awwww...my husband makes me mix tapes) of songs from "Glee." Yeah, baby.
4. The last one I really can't say. But here are some hints.

--it's a gadget, with a written guarantee that you will be satisfied or your money back.
--he said "I don't know about opening this in front of Jarrah..." as I did exactly that.
--it has a clever name that is a cute misspelling.
--in the '60s, it might have been described as a "marital aid."

But you so wish I could tell you what's actually so special about it. Because you would never guess. In a million years. I'm staring at the box right now and I still can't believe it myself.

All right, enough of that. I also had a 90 minute massage on my birthday. I had never had more than 60 before. Here's what I learned about 90 minute massages:

1. They are 30 minutes longer than the 60 minute ones.
2. Everything you think is awesome happens for 50 percent longer.
3. When they're over, you feel like it's a new day. Seriously.

This year, I got to start my birthday the night before and ring it in at midnight just like the new year, since I was still out at that time. After a particularly lively rehearsal, me and a bunch of my theater peeps got together for tea, and were out late plotting world domination (one show at a time.) Three of us were celebrating birthdays, which is pretty scary if you think too hard about three feisty Scorpio babes sucking all the air out of one tiny corner of Point Loma. A special shout-out to chef prodigy Calvin, who surprised us by baking an actual cake, with layers and frosting and ganache and all. And which tasted like angels made it. Only they didn't. He did, and even recruited the tea guy to serve it so we could be surprised. It's very hard to surprise me on my birthday, since my expectations are so ridiculously high. But I was surprised. And that's really cool.

So, my national holiday has passed for another year. And I think I'm ready to let it go gracefully. I didn't break my comment record, you may have noticed. But I'm not sad, because the comments you did leave had me basking in your love.

And I love love. Thanks, Dear Readers.