It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

I’m not having a party. It’s not even my birthday. It’s my friend’s birthday today and that got me thinking about birthdays in general. I really wish people celebrated birthdays more. I mean people go ape shit over Christmas – buying other people gifts and claiming it’s a mythological baby’s birthday therefore the gifts are justified. Whateva. How about going nuts for someone when it is THEIR birthday? The one day they can truly say – hey, today is the day that I came into this world and I think that deserves some attention. And balloons. I do so love balloons. A terrible waste of air trapped in latex but super fun nonetheless.

Granted a birthday means we are getting older, but shouldn’t we be praised and celebrated for surviving another year? Every day the world tries to kill you and you made it! You didn’t get hit by the hypothetical bus, you overcame illnesses, aches, and late pizza deliveries. You woke up day after day and managed to sustain yourself without damaging the one thing only you are responsible for…the plethora of organs encased in really fragile skin. Think about it. When you stub your toe don’t you curse yourself for letting that happen? Dammit that’s YOUR toe, protect it. So you made it, you survived, it’s your birthday! And now you have to protect your jello jiggling self for a whole new year before you can eat cake guilt free. With a balloon tied to your chair.

As celebratory as a birthday should be, too many people say it’s just another day. To them I say, then don’t ask me where your present is. Ah, if only that were true. I really do want to celebrate you and make you feel special. How come you want to take that away from me? Isn’t there enough misery in this world? Wouldn’t one day of being treated like royalty feel good? It should because the other 364 days the world is going to shit on your face. Heads up. Take the gift you ungrateful bastard.

Now let me take a second to tell you how some of my birthdays have gone (awry). My birthday is exactly one week after the Golden Child’s. He’s my older brother who turned out to be a homeless drunk. The only gold surrounding him now runs down his leg and decorates whichever sidewalk he passed out on. But back then, as the oldest and chosen one, his birthday was actually celebrated, whereas mine was an afterthought.  There’s a picture of us sharing a birthday and the cake was this Sesame Street train contraption. In the picture he can be seen exhaling and blowing out all the candles while I am still clearly inhaling. Such was my life. At fifteen I was told we spent our money on your brother so we’ll make sure we do something extra nice next year. At sixteen there was nothing. No Sweet 16 for me. I actually spent it in my room waiting for a boy to call me. He never did. I never waited for a guy to call me again.

Then there was the birthday from fourth grade. I’m not about to do the math and figure out how old I was supposed to be, but I was old enough to be mortified in front of my entire class who was at my house party. Let’s be clear. This wasn’t a house party like you see on MTv. This was generic bottles of soda, a homemade cake, chips and pretzels. We played games that consisted of dumping the junk drawer on a cookie tray and having to write-down-how-many-things-you-can-remember-in-one-minute. I always won. It was my junk drawer, I knew what was in there. Let’s not forget pass the erection towel. We were too poor to use our dryer so our bath towels were stiff as boards. One would get rolled up real tight like a tube and the kids would hold it from the top, passing it in a circle around the room, each putting their hand/grasp under the person who passed it to them. When the stiffy expired and the towel flopped over…you lost. Who thinks of this shit? Ah and then the dressing game. Mind you my birthday is in MARCH. This is Jersey bitches. It’s cold outside. Never you fret, the dressing game would keep you warm. We split the kids into two teams, one on each side of the yard. Each team was given a box of hobo class that, yes, we actually had in our basement. There were big old hunting boots with dried deer blood, straw hats, mittens, waders smeared with fish scales, feather boas (don’t ask) and numerous flannels and sweatshirts. Goal: put on EVERYTHING in the box, run to the other side, disrobe, and the next team mate would repeat. Whichever team could get all their members back the fastest won. Sadly, we had a great time doing these things. We were easy to please.

But the games weren’t the mortifying part. Oh no. That was being handed a gift by my mother, the spawn of satan, to open in front of my classmates. *Note: you had to invite everyone from your class. There were only about 20 of us and none of us were really friends. So anyway, what was the gift? A seven day pack of days-of-the-week underwear briefs. Briefs, not even panties. We are talking S.O.S. flag waiving sized underwear that would remind me, my ass and now my classmates what day of the week it was. *Note: I was in gifted and talented class and didn’t need to be reminded of anything except why this creature gave birth to me. OK, you know what happened, everyone bursts out laughing and I ran like the immature (yet gifted and talented!) 4^th grader that I was up to my room. The question is…why, as a person who was allegedly a young girl once herself, would my mom do that to me in front of my pseudo friends? Silly readers. Because she could. She wanted to. Mission accomplished.

And so began my desire for the perfect birthday. I know it’s out there. A day where I wake up and go where I want, do what I want, be celebrated, appreciated, and sure, showered with gifts. Why not? I like gifts. Everyone likes gifts. If they tell you they don’t they are lying and just give their gift to me because I actually like gifts. A day where my birthday dinner doesn’t end in me feeling like shit because you don’t like who sat next to us or how long we had to wait. A day where I don’t fake a smile because you forgot it was my birthday and I said that’s ok, I know how it can sneak up on you. A day where you give me something I want, not something you want. A day where you remember how I went overboard for you and that I would like you to do the same.

A day where, dare I say it, a surprise party erupts and exactly who I would like to be there is there because someone made the effort to find out who is important to me. And they are all together, surrounded by smiles, Cheetos, puppies and a sky high cake doused with buttercream icing and sugared paw prints. There’ll be a table toppled with gifts and everyone will pat me on the back for keeping my body alive another year. And everyone will have a balloon. J