So George Gershwin, Olivia Newton-John, T.S. Eliot, and Shamu Walk into a Bar...

First and foremost, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your comments on my last post. Did you ever write something and actually cringe as you hit the “publish” button, such is your fear of the responses? That was one of those times, since I knew I was being brutally honest about a topic that has the propensity to be controversial. (I mean, my god, I’ve read comments elsewhere that said if a woman is planning on working after she has kids, then she shouldn’t bother having children.) I was therefore grateful for the respectful tone of all of the comments. Whether you agreed with me, disagreed with me, or brought up a different perspective, there was not a rude statement to be found. So thank you once again for listening to what I had to say, discussing what can occasionally be a touchy subject in a completely rational and insightful fashion, and letting me know that I'm not the only one out there who feels the way I do.

So! Let’s move on, shall we?

My birthday is on Friday, and I’m going to be 28. While I have no problem getting older, as I was telling a few friends earlier this evening, I am getting panicky that I now have one year less to get my ass on a “Top 30 Under 30” list. Well, not my actual ass. It’s nothing to write home about, honestly. But you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any such list on which I would belong, but just knowing that I’m running out of time makes me panicky. If that makes any sense at all.

I am, however, one year closer to my surprise Roaring Twenties-themed 30^th birthday party! For those of you keeping score at home, despite the fact that I'm not really a big birthday person, and the fact that I don't relish me-centric parties…(Oh, GOD. Who do I sound like? “I don't like attention! Or parties in my honor! Make me immortal! Ow, I’ve electrocuted myself on this downed wire. Don’t get me birthday presents! I hate them! Drat, I seem to have stepped in a bear trap. Make me immortal! Oh, no! I’ve fallen down. Again.”)…I’ve inexplicably become OBSESSED with the idea of a Great Gatsby-type surprise party in honor of my 30^th birthday, complete with a jazz band, costumes, and copious amounts of gin, or as I plan on calling it at said party, "moonshine." (Yes, I KNOW they're not necessarily the same thing, but it's MY imaginary party, dammit.) It is SO WEIRD, people, and completely out of character for me. As I mentioned last year at this time, I have no idea how anyone would go about throwing someone a surprise, themed costume party, but I suppose my loved ones still have two years to figure it out. (I’M KIDDING, loved ones! Sort of.)

In other birthday news, do you share your birthday with any cool famous people? Because I DO NOT. It’s me, Olivia Newton-John, George Gershwin and TS Eliot. (UPDATE: Confiance informs me that she also shares my birthday. AS DOES SHAMU THE WHALE. HAHAAAAA.) I mean, could you imagine me going out for a birthday dinner with said famous people? You know, putting aside the fact that some of these people are technically…dead.

Olivia: Come on, gang! We’re going to be late! And my skintight leather pants are getting uncomfortable! Has anyone seen Danny? Not like I CARE, or anything, I’m just curious, is all. [Fluffs her giant hair.]

Gershwin: I invented the folk opera, bitch. Don’t rush me.

Me: What the hell? We’re Libras, you guys! Where’s your sense of balance and diplomacy?

Shamu: Glaaaaaaargggggg!!!!! *splash* [insert whale-like, Wookie-type noises here.]

Eliot: Um…right. So, whales live in the water. My poem The Wasteland discusses water. And when my poem The Wasteland is read with my notes, the water and thunder take on a deeper significance. Through reading the notes, it becomes clear that I meant for the first part of section V to represent the journey of Jesus’ disciples to Emmaus, the approach to Chapel Perilous, and the present decay of Eastern Europe. OBVIOUSLY. [This is taken from an actual paper I wrote in college. I have no recollection of said paper, and I think it’s obvious that I did not and do not have any clue what the fuck I was saying.]

Olivia: Tell me about it….stud.

Me: Olivia! You are SIXTY YEARS OLD. Grease was a long time ago.

[Gershwin starts playing the opening bars to “You’re The One That I Want.” Shamu starts singing along.]

Eliot: Oh, for the love of God, Gershwin! YOU’RE NOT HELPING.

And….scene.

What I’m trying to say is that my famous birthday cohorts are sort of…well, lame, and I’m always jealous of the people who share a birthday with, say, Brad Pitt or JFK. Instead of this motley crew. Which, yes, INCLUDES A BELOVED NATIONAL TREASURE OF A WHALE:

On the bright side, at least I know my (early) birthday dinner tomorrow night will be markedly better than my imaginary one. My mom is watching the kids, and J is taking me out to my favorite restaurant in the city. There will be steak, and there will be wine. Also, I believe there will be presents. I cannot wait.