Happy Birthday to Me

I have always loved my birthday. Thought I always would.

Apparently I have proven myself wrong.

Today is a miserable 11th day continuation of a miserable ten-day period beginning on Black Friday. For retailers, the "black" had a positive connotation. For me, it simply gave name to the little rain cloud that was forming above my head.

(If you are opposed to "pity parties", I suggest you stop reading now. I am about to go full core Lesley Gore on this one.)

1. I blew off Thanksgiving with my family because I was freakin' exhausted. I spent the day lounging with Phizz and Daphne watching marathons of "Cold Case Files" and "Forensic Files" and sharing turkey cold cuts. That part was cool, but I kept putting off going to the gym until it was too late, and stressed the rest of the day about missing my workout.

2. Because I blew off the gym on Thursday, I had to get up Friday and go. I ran into David P. who has the personal training session before mine on Tuesdays. It is a little known fact that I think David P. is hotter than hell and want him to ask me out.

It shouldn't, however, be a little known fact to him, since I have done all my Girl Stuff and made it as explicitly clear as possible (without actually saying the words) that if he were to so suggest, he need not concern himself with rejection.

Much to my annoyance and dismay, David P. seems to be immune to my charms. This puts me in a somewhat awkward position, because I haven't often had to deal with charm-resistant boys and I'm not quite sure how to take it or what I'm supposed to do, so I just stopped briefly to inquire about his holiday, blah blah blah, and then excused myself to complete my workout.

Oddly enough, about a half hour later, David P. comes wandering up to the fourth floor where I am happily sweating away on the elliptical machine, burning up 942 calories an hour. I say oddly because I am often in the gym at the same time as David P. and I have NEVER seen him above the first floor. If you had asked me, I would have told you that he didn't even know there WAS a fourth floor. But anyway, here he comes, casually strolling over to the weight machines and ignoring me. I don't make any motion to him, because if he came up to find me, it is incumbent on him to make the first move.

For the next 20 minutes he works out three feet away from me and never acknowledges my presence. We finish our exercise at almost the same time, and as he walks out, I fall into step about 18" behind him. I still don't say anything, because this is the perfect opportunity for him to use the ruse of "noticing" me as we are going down the stairs with that casual "look up the stairs because the motion of another person moving draws your eyes upward" thing.

The boy never once looked up.

He abandoned his walk on the first floor. I continued down to the women's locker room on the lower level to get my belongings and head home. As I was walking out, I saw him using the chest press machine that provided a perfect view of people entering and exiting the gym. I kept my eyes on him with a smile at the ready so that when he looked up (as surely he would), I could give him a little wink and a wave goodbye. The boy STILL never looked up.

Fuck.

3. I actually went to Bloomingdale's on Black Friday to pick up necessary accoutrements for my trip. I waited in three different lines for what seemed like hours. Naturally they had the s...l...o...w...e...s...t geriatric salespeople on the registers on such a big day. I respect the wisdom and value of the older generation, but unless they can keep up with the activity they are charged with, get 'em outta my way. And before I am suspected of age-ism, understand that the same goes for any age. If you can't do it, get another job. I've got places to be.

I made it through that fiasco, and was very pleased with myself...until I realized a week later that I had purchased the wrong garment and it was too big anyway.

Fuck!

4. Saturday entailed another trip to the gym to burn off more of that fat stuff so that I could look my most fabulous for my upcoming events. I spent the rest of the day with my head buried in books and papers trying to figure out:
(1) AGI = $299,700 – DNI
(2) DNI = $100,000 – AMID
(3) AMID = $15,000 – (.02*AGI)

It has something to do with algebra. I didn't do well in algebra. This is a major part of my final exam in Income Taxation of Trusts & Estates (which is 100% of my grade). If I don't wrap my head around this by December 20th, I am screwed.

Fuck!!

5. On Sunday I wasted most of the day by taking my dirty laundry to my parents' house in Westchester and taking advantage of their out-of-town-ness to clean all my clothes for free. I lucked out because one of my younger sisters was around and was kind enough to acquiesce to my request to drive me home with all my crap. So aside from missing a day at the gym, and having to fold my own clothes, Sunday wasn't so bad.

(Hooray for not-so-bad days!)

6. Monday I don't remember much about. I know I only did a half assed workout for about 30 pathetic minutes and was annoyed with myself because I had no excuse not to do better.

7. On Tuesday Herself The Gym Rat COULD NOT focus, and wasted $75 by whining through the first ten minutes of my personal training session and spending the next 50 minutes being stretched instead of lifting weights like I was supposed to. It didn't help that David P. was standing around looking cute and sweaty (having just completed his hour-long session) and smiling at me like we were the best of buds and had no questions between us. Being the actress that I am, I gave as good as I got and went along with his stupid little game.

Yes, I'm mad Playa Hatin'. This sh*t is only endearing when I do it, not when other people do it to me. Boys playing hard to get is SO NOT SEXY!!!

8. Wednesday: decent pedicure, crappy manicure. I now have no fingernails. I can't even open a can of cat food. I have to use a knife to pry the pop-py thing up. I do get in a 50 minute workout, but I have to go sit through another 2 hours of tax class.

SOMEBODY SHOOT ME, PLEASE!

9. Thursday: $120 to Yvette to make my hair glossy and beautiful. Yvette (who usually does an amazing job on my hair), asks if I want a trim. I defer to her judgment since she is the expert. She trims. The next morning my hair looks like I spent the entire evening in a sauna. Frizz City. To top it off, the "trim" seems to have involved hacking off about 4" of hair on one huge section on the right side of my head. I now have very unattractive, frizzy, unnecessarily multi-layered hair.

FUCK!!!

10. Thursday night I get a text from The Kitten that his mother is concerned about the chest pains he's been having and that he's on his way to the hospital to see a doctor.

Hours later I get another text that he has bronchitis and won't be at work on Friday. I've never had bronchitis, but I can see where this is heading. Now I'm REALLY not happy.

FUCKITYFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!

11. Friday: The Kitten confirms my suspicions and disarticulates himself from the trip. I do the only thing I can, and text him that New Orleans will not be the same without him. The Kitten is somewhat stunned to learn this was his surprise, and bemoans his fate with "My life sucks". The only reply to which is, "Not your life, just our weekend."

Now I'm, understandably, in a truly bitchy mood.

I end up working later than planned, and am late for my eyebrow and bikini waxing with Dawn. Dawn's cool and hooks me up in what must be record time. As I'm leaving, I wonder if in any other country people get tipped for causing excruciating pain.

I'm a little disappointed with my eyebrows, which I thought would come out more dramatic than they did. I'm not sure how I feel about the bikini wax, but I'm pretty sure I'm glad I didn't go with the Brazilian.

At this point I'm tired and cranky and pissed off and upset and damn near every other emotion you can think of. Not conducive to working out, so I blow it off...again. I know perfectly well this will upset me come Saturday, but I decide I don't care.

12. Saturday: I get up and head to LGA. After standing in line to be x-rayed, I discover that it has been so long since I traveled that I am unaware of the rule involving no more than 3 oz. of liquid per container being permitted in carry-on luggage. I have a choice of having over $100 worth of toiletries chucked in the garbage or checking my bag.

I wish my eyes could inflict pain and death upon the minimum wage Nazis who feel threatened by my unopened Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple.

My wish is not fulfilled. I check my bag. I sleep the entire ride to New Orleans. Since I have paid for two seats, I stretch out on both of them and make myself as comfortable as possible. It is my sincere wish that everyone around me is jealous of my spacious accommodations, but I don't ask and no one tells.

When I finally rescue my bag from the traveling strip of rubber that serves as a conveyor of packed inconveniencies, catch the airport shuttle to my hotel and swoop into my room. My intention is to take a quick nap (I'm still tired for some reason), change my clothes and head to Pat O'Brien's to allow friends I haven't yet made to commiserate with my sad state of affairs and buy me drinks to cheer me up.

Either I'm too old or too depressed for this, as I slept a lot longer than I had intended and woke up with just enough time to go buy some pralines before going to dinner at NOLA. The chubby proprietress of Leah's Candy Store made it a point to try to hook me on all the different praline options by waving free sample dishes in front of me. And we all know how I feel about "free".

I chatted with her for a bit about how long the business had been in her family and how her son wanted to take over when she retired and her concerns about his ability to be able to handle it. We also talked about the recovery of the city since Katrina and I commented that it made me feel really good to see that the good people of New Orleans had not lost their joie de vive and were bringing that irrepressible spirit to the reconstruction of their town and lives. I could see the troubled pain in her eyes as she said, "It's been hard. Really hard." My heart ached for her and all the other victims of a catastrophe that could have been largely avoided had our government felt that these people were worth their time and effort. We thanked each other and I walked back to the hotel to change for dinner.

I chose the hotel based on its proximity to both The Quarter and NOLA. The restaurant was only about half a block away and I arrived a few minutes before the designated time of 7 PM. I explained to the empathetic front desk staff of my dinner companion's illness, and they looked somewhat disappointed that they would not get to sing "Happy Birthday" as I had requested, but in true New Orleans style, they immediately made me feel at home and took excellent care of me through my three courses. I took the opportunity to write a rough draft of a recommendation for My Friend Jessica's applications to Biz Skool. It came out pretty good, if I do say so myself. New Orleans brings out a lot of the best of me.

By the time the dessert course rolled around, I begged off continuing to occupy my snug little table alone and took my Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie with Sweet Potato ice cream (Uh huh. That's what I thought, too. Sweet Potato ice cream??? Sounds a little weird! It actually turned out to be quite yummy and a perfect foil for the sweetness of the pie) back to Room 530. I nibbled at it while trying to formulate a plan for my evening activities.

I think you can guess how that turned out.

The next morning I did follow through on my promise to myself that I would hit the exercise room, although it involved a bit more than I expected. Turns out that my hotel's gym was being renovated, so I had privileges to use the gym at a neighboring hotel. By the time I found that out, I was already downstairs and didn't feel like going back to my room to get my jacket, so I walked the 2-1/2 blocks in my camisole and nylon sweatpants. Fortunately, it wasn't frightfully cold, but it certainly wasn't weather I should have been running around half-naked in.

I got in a halfway decent workout before I had to head back to get changed, pack and get ready to leave for the airport. The weekend was planned specifically for one agenda and one agenda only, so it was weird to have this quick turnaround without having done 99% of the stuff I had planned. Had I know it was going to be a solo trip, I would have flown in Friday and stayed through Monday so that I could have gone to all my extended (read "Outside The Quarter") favorite spots and seen My Friend Steve who was away for the weekend at his hunting cabin in Red Stick (known to most as Baton Rouge) killing something or another.

The return trip wasn't much different from the trip in except I knew to check my bag before I got all the way to the minimum wage x-ray Nazis. Between collecting my bag and waiting for the airport bus, it took me two hours to get home instead of the one it should have taken. And it was cold. And I was tired. And I was cranky. And I was unhappy that even the charm of my beautiful New Orleans couldn't break through the sorrow I felt at not having been able to share my town with the one person I knew who would have properly appreciated it. And my impending birthday really wasn't helping put a good spin on any of it.

13. And so, if you've managed to stay with me this long, all this brings me to today and my surprisingly Not Happy Happy Birthday day. My babiest sister took me to lunch, so I had a Malibu & Cranberry which really didn't do much for me, but made me feel somewhat better for the "naughtiness" of it.

My Friend Jessica took me to dinner at a Japanese BBQ place where I go to spear and sear my own meat...helpful for taking out the pent-up aggression. She also bought me the cutest little Coach bag, so now I have to start dressing like a grown-up so I can actually use it. (She claims that I can wear it with my jeans and sneakers, but I feel it deserves a slightly better presentation than that. Besides, I probably should start doing the grown-up thing no matter how much the thought repels me.) Hanging out with Jess is always good. She's very grounded and does an excellent job of bringing me back to earth when I set off on one of my high-flown melodramatic fanciful tears. And my cats love her because she always brings them treats and presents. In fact, in what I believed to be my second present bag, I discovered cat treats and toys. This was forgiven in light of the fact that nestled within the catnip mice and weird Santa Claus hat looking thing I still haven't figured out was a beautiful hand carved statue of an elephant-headed god from Cambodia where she traveled last year. Did I mention Jess is also an incredibly thoughtful person who gives gifts from the heart? Love you, Jess!

In addition to these in-person appearances, I got lots of phone calls and e-cards, so I know there are people out there who care about me. I guess things could be a lot worse. And, Goddess willing, New Orleans will still be there and I will have other opportunities to share her with sympathetic souls.

And who knows? David P. may yet come to his senses and realize that he is destined to be my next ex-husband!