So, one of my nearest and dearest—a BFF, bestie, pal and mate of my little soul—turns 40 this month, you guys. 40! Our birthdays are a day (and three years) apart (Ohhh! December 22 will be here before you know it…you should take the day off and spend it drinking bubbles with me. I’ll tell you my birth story and, possibly, reenact the part where I got sent home in a Christmas stocking. Oh, yes I sure did!) and we always celebrate by taking a day that week to luxuriate at the spa, drink too much at lunch and get to really, truly catch up on the year. It’s a tradition that, in the 11 years we’ve been friends, I’ve come to cherish fiercely and it wouldn’t feel like my birthday, which is really what I consider the true kick-off to The Holidays, without my friend. Jennie’s life is super cray-cray: she’s a wife, a mother of 5 (she had 3 AT ONE TIME.) and a hugely successful business owner. She’s also an amazing daughter, sister, friend and oenophile. (And a scrap booker, which still cracks me up.) It boggles me how she fits it all in, but she does. (I can barely keep up with my TiVo.) I love that she’s always so honest about how the juggling isn’t easy, and she has some really funny parenting stories that would break the faint of heart, but she gets it all done and is still able to squeeze any drop of fun and joy from an experience and embrace it. She knows that it’s all fodder for the memoirs, and that The Crazy is what makes life interesting.
|Grabbing 40 by the disco balls!|
Anyway, her husband threw a blow-out 40th Boogie Disco party for her this past weekend and it was F-U-N, you guys. So fun. People were decked out and ready to do The Hustle (DIRTY!) all night long. I ended up going as Rhoda, in case you wanted to know. Originally, I was going to wear my little silver and blue bell-sleeved mini-dress (CUTE!) but when I tried it on the night before, found out that in the 563899247 years since I’d last donned it, it got…shorter? Rude, right? Like…indecently short. I was going to try and be all ballsy about it and just throw on some silver tights and show up anyway all “What? Yeah, that’s right.”, but really? I’m not Lindsay Lohan. Just because it technically fits doesn’t mean you should wear it out the house, am I right? (Seriously, girls. DO. NOT.) Given that this was not going to be a demure event and that there would for sure be a dance-off, and cocktails, and light acrobatics, and more cocktails, I decided it was more prudent to keep the Lady Business secured. Also, we all know I’m prone to falling when over-stimulated. (Look at me! So responsible!) So that’s when Plan B took over…I blue shimmer-shadowed my eyeballs, feathered the shit out of my hair and dug out the enormous gold hoops. I’ll say it: I was a cute Rhoda.
As with anything they do, there were lots of exciting and special details: a choreographed dance, wardrobe changes, the perfect music, her almost-80-year old mother in a black wig plus sequined bandana and, impressively, fellas with creepy facial hair that was actually real…like, these guys spent the week growing out ‘staches that they then apparently spent hours sculpting in to ‘70’s, handle-barred submission. That’s dedication to the cause! And also: there was cake. The birthday girl has a favorite…an Albertson’s strawberry,-Bavarian-creamed-whipped-cream-frostinged extravaganza, so that’s what she got. I sure did eat my piece that night when it came my way, but the almost-40 year old was too busy shaking her thang and batting her glittered lashes to the masses to be bothered. (PS: Dessert never bothers me.) At breakfast the next morning with her sisters and mother (who I also happen to L-O-V-E, LOVE.), Jennie was telling us that she woke up in the hotel room famished, as you’re wont to do after a night of debauchery and wig-wearing. And the only thing that she spied was the cake, which wasn’t going to do the trick.
“So,” I said, “you didn’t have ANY of your special cake?”
“Oh no, dude,” she said, “I had to take one bite, because according to my mother it’s bad luck to not have a bite of your own birthday cake. So I got up and took a bite.” And then she immediately needed to drink Bloody Marys.
Knowing this also to be true as it’s always been a rule in my life, it made sense. I also began to hope that there is some sort of grace period or statute of limitations on cake rules. Like did she have 24 hours from candle blow-out to eat some or what? (I’ll have to research this.) And when we all went our separate ways after hugs and kisses, I started thinking about some of the other cake rules: the first wedding anniversary frozen tier; the sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under your pillow so you have sweet dreams about your one true love. Which…who does that…nobody, right? I mean, that’s totally impractical and messy, though it’s sweet and promising in theory so…whatever. And the one where whoever finds that weird baby in the King’s cake during Mardi Gras gets good luck.
It’s obvious to me that we need more cake rules around here and my plan is to start implementing new ones in to society. Fun and exciting, right? It’s still a work in progress. (I’m still really busy trying to make it a law that engaged men should have to wear a ring, too. It just makes sense.) Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. I’m sure you guys can’t wait!