birthday: part one, one week late.

fine. just fine. i don’t want to write this, because i want to eat some cheese and go to bed. but mamie is going to london and afraid and something about a five hour drive and fears of flying, and if i write this birthday post the hijackers won’t happen.

my birthday was last friday. it was supposed to be a surprise dinner party, so everyone told me. which was sort of a relief, because up until then every friend i had was acting like my only friend: ‘don’t worry, han, we’ll go have dinner just the two of us.’

but dinner was great, i was all, ‘i love my friends. i love scallop and chorizo soup. i love my hanky pankys.’ i can’t dwell on it: too perfect, and i know how that can get boring.

(and i sometimes talk to my students about the dangers of gender stereotypes)

after dinner, i’m trying to convince myself i’m totally psyched to go out, because the kids are with a sitter. and then everyone bails. it’s 930pm and it’s just me and mamie. i tell her i think i want to go to bed. she tells me we’re going to sinsin. one drink. so we’re there, we’re settled, we’re totally fucking happy. mamie says, we need to get out of here. i say, i want to go home.

we go to chelsea’s. mame’s doing this little dance in front of the floor to ceiling windows trying to decide if we should go in. a friend of ours is bartending, is staring at us. we go in, order two glasses. i take a sip, look at our friend’s thesis, feel happy. mamie says, i think we should go to the blue post. i think the blue post will make our night, she continues without a trace of irony. i say no.

at the blue post, mamie orders for me, which i’ve been making her do all night because i can’t handle any more jokes about my vodka/cranberries. but we have seats at the bar, friends are meeting us there, my life couldn’t be better. i think about how perfect and glorious everything is. then i notice mamie is doing her signature sleeping attentively thing. it’s the craziest thing. she’ll sit there, looking glamorous, bolt upright, sound asleep, with her eyebrows arched in a way that says, i’m hanging onto every word you’re saying. i knew what would happen before it happened. she stumbles up, says ‘igottago’ and without a backward glance, starts bulldozing her way to the door. catch up to her outside where she is irritably plucking a contact from her eye, dropping it on the ground and saying petulantly, i lost my contact, now how will i get home?

on the way back to the car, i’ve got my arm linked with hers to keep her upright. she goes, peevishly, stop guiding me! you’re such a mom. i let her go, and she plows into a metal post.

if you were out last friday, you probably saw a crazy girl shouting, MOOOVE!!! MOOOVE!!! COME ON. she would have been standing in the middle of market street with a truck barreling towards her. as i yell at her to move out of the way, the truck slams on its breaks, a window rolls down, and someone says, oh, baby, i’d never run down a purty little thing like you. mamie says, thank you so much. waves dismissively, and imperiously demands that i get in the car, move, drive.

the next morning, i torture her by sending the kids in to her and reading people.com out loud. she gets back at me by skipping breakfast at the beach and having me meet her at the mall with the kids where i find her standing in forever21 surrounded by piles of clothes. she’s standing there looking perfect, dressed all in white, but her coat hem is pinned up like she’s stolen it from a seamstress and she’s holding up a neon green sweater with a giant ruffle and i’m looking at her like, are you fucking kidding me? burn it now, get it gone! and the kids are handing her baubles, necklaces with giant crosses and big, tinny hearts that come with even bigger keys.

i’m talking to mamie about how to end this post. she’s screaming END IT END IT END IT.