People probably think it’s odd that I insist on celebrating birthday week, especially since I’m turning 30 in two days (48 hours, 48 hours) and I’m about halfway through my seven day celebration–which actually got extended to next weekend, since Chris’ family was here and I could not celebrate my week properly or selfishly with guests around (I really am too much during bday week). I don’t care if it’s childish and odd…it’s fun and I will never understand people who don’t love their birthdays. AND, this one I can blame on my father. HE is the one that started birthday week, birthday month, all that is excessive about our birthdays. (Here is a picture of his birthday, if anyone needs proof–please note his headpiece thing) If you were to call my father anytime during the month of May, especially near his birthday, which fell on Memorial Day weekend, he’d answer the phone cheerfully (and loudly), asking, “Helloooo? Have you called about my natal month?” Then he would bust up laughing, that really loud, belly laugh he had, and remind me how many days I had to buy him a gift. He wasn’t kidding. He loved cake and gifts and celebrations just as much as the next six year old. And so I have inherited the love of birthday month.
Birthday month is easy to explain. Basically, I get to do (and say) anything I want in October and blame it on my month. I can choose the plans for the evening, the dinner menus, the number of days in a week I drink too much. I can eat cake twice a day, sit in my pjs, buy myself something I shouldn’t (which has been tough this year with stolen change) and really do anything. If anyone questions me, “It’s birthday month” is the appropriate response.
Birthday week is like Mardi Gras. It’s a birthday party that lasts for seven days straight with one big celebration at the end…well, it’s kind of like Hanukkah meets New Years Eve, but not Jewish and in October and the guest of honor is yours truly. What’s even better about birthday week is that I share it with Katie, so often it gets to be a two week celebration, one after the other. As kids I didn’t appreciate birthday week as much because her birthday was always interfering with mine, as we shared a birthday party. I didn’t ever want her touching my balloons or Jem or bike and she always would, even though she had her own pile of presents to play with. See what’s going on in that picture of us? Katie is blowing on my cake…though it suspiciously looks like a joint cake, which I would have never asked for. Hmmm…There are 11 candles on that cake. 7 for me, 4 for her. Looks like in 1986 Linda cheaped out on us and made us share a cake. I’ll take this up with her this week and review the photos of every other birthday from 1983-present. I would hope 1986 was a fluke.
This will be the first year in at least six years that Katie and I won’t be sharing a birthday week, a cake, or a hug (shot) on our birthdays. It will be the first year I don’t get some sort of baked good from Jayne, who really makes the best cakes in the world. And it’ll be the second year I spend my birthday week without a phone call from my dad. Normally the phone would have rang last night, right around the time of the Pats game, so he could rag on me about birthday week and then we could talk football. He won’t call again this Wednesday and sing to me like he used to, and I mean up until I was 27…he sang to me for 27 years. And there won’t be another card in my box with his writing, and so I will have to go look for old ones just so I will not forget what they look like.
Out of all the days in the year, I miss him the most on my birthday, and on his. And so this year, I will really do it up and think of him on the day I turn 30. I’ll celebrate on Friday (the real day is a day of cake and rest)…After my day at the spa, it’s a night on the town with friends. I’m thinking fishnets, red lipstick, three pieces of cake, heels, and sieben vodka martinis, up and extra dirty. It is a kickoff to my dirty 30s, afterall….
Two more days….