I didn’t post a weekend update last Monday because I was pouting. My birthday was August 1st and nobody remembered. Which is odd because I start dropping hints for gifts IN MARCH.
Let’s talk about my birthday for a moment, shall we? Really break it down. So, it’s AUGUST, named for Caeser Augustus, and FIRST, as in “number one.” Easy enough. AUGUST FIRST. You might be interested to know that the first week of August is National Clown Week (and doesn’t that explain everything). Also: my birthday, AUGUST FIRST, is Raspberry Cream Pie Day (well alright). Famous People born on AUGUST FIRST include portly ‘Friend of Burt’ Dom DeLuise and Tempestt “the Temptress” Bledsoe.
FUN FACT #1: AUGUST FIRST is the official birthday of every horse. True story. Regardless of their actual birth date, horses are registered as being born on AUGUST FIRST. Unless they were born in the Southern hemisphere- then it’s January first. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.
FUN FACT #2- August first, 1966- MY BIRTHDAY– was the same day that Charles Whitman climbed into the bell tower at University of Texas in Austin and opened fire onto the student body, killing 14, and wounding many others. Blood, death, and mayhem – then there was me. I firmly believe that I am the reincarnated spirit of one of the 14 people slain that day. All the pieces fit into place. Seriously, dude, I REALLY don’t like water towers and MY BIRTHDAY’S AUGUST FIRST. And who’s to argue? YOU?
ANYWAY – I want you to know that without the usually ubiquitous/suddenly absent office birthday cake and that sweet gift of the pink iPod mini that I DID NOT GET (sigh), I did not enjoy my special day. No, not at all. (Sigh) I guess it’s not ALL you’re fault though. I was in a bad mood any way.
Have I mentioned yet that I’m 38. Thirty-eight? How did that happen? Homer Simpson is 38. Cindy Crawford is 38 – and really, for an ex-supermodel, she’s aging like a fishwife. RIGHT? ANYBODY? That leathery old, gap-toothed, hatchet-faced, suddenly-C-list, Maria-Shriver-looking, hasn’t-changed-her-hairdo-since-the-’80s HAS-BEEN is the same age as ME. ME! Guess who else? Martin Lawrence. Enough said.
So, sigh, here I am. Thirty-eight, and peering into the void. Any way you slice it, 38 is just a few k-holes from 40. FORTY? I’m at my half-life. The final leg of my journey. It’s all over but for the worms. In fact, if this were the 17th century, I’d already be dead. If I was Jesus Christ or JFK Jr, I’d already be dead. George Gershwin, Harry Chapin, Mario Lanza, Flo-Jo and Christina Onassis – ALL DEAD AT 38.
And I’m not a well woman anyway. Where’s my Digitalis?
So what’s in store for me? Well: I’m very excited about colonoscopies. NO REALLY. And increased ear hair. I’m harvesting for a weave, something in a Lenny Kravitz (isn’t that just THE MOST) (to say the least). And OH! Have I mentioned my chest hair is completely white? Like Ted Baxter.
The ancient philosopher Joy Behar once said that after 35 nobody looks at you on the beach ever again. You become a non-entity. This isn’t really a big deal for me, due to the fact that I don’t like the water. Or the outdoors. Or moving around a lot. EXCEPT. . . .
My dream – my deepest, darkest dream in my heart of hearts – is to go to the beach just once before I turn 40, in a thong. A zebra thong. A lime-green zebra thong. And not cause sudden choking. I want to be HOT EUROPEAN THONG GUY. Or maybe dark and swarthy BRAZILIAN CABANA BOY. I want the whole beach grunting and frothing at the mouth in a bulge-induced frenzy. Please. Just once.
True Story: One time I wore a gold lamé thong to lay out in Central Park. This was extremely poor judgment on my part due to the fact that I had done entirely too much cocaine at SAVE THE ROBOTS, and frankly, I was a mess. Not suitable for public viewing. But for some odd reason, I thought that everything would be fine if I could just find a quiet, secluded area of the Rambles to shiver and grind my teeth. And maybe work on my tan. Mind you, I hadn’t seen the sun in six years. My skin was a luminous shade of sea foam. I weighed 86 pounds, and dropping. My once-fabulous Krystal Carrington hair-do was now the color of old dentures and brittle from too many bleachings. And the gold lamé thong just happened to be my underwear from the night before. (It was an ’80s thing.) (I promise.)
All things considered, I probably looked a little berserk.
I found a spot on a hill, under a bush, and crawled in. I was laying on my stomach, twitching quietly, when a small band of children gathered around me and began laughing and poking me with sticks – obviously on a field trip to learn how to fag-bash. Kids can be so cruel. Get this:
“Hey lady!” one of them jeered, “I can see your titties!” They all laughed uproariously.
WELL I JUST WANTED TO DIE. I just wanted the earth to swallow me up. What could I do? So, you see why I need closure on this whole thong thing. I want to do it right. Without the public taunting and stick-poking. So next birthday, buy me a good-looking thong, and by then I’ll be back in shape to wear it. We’ll still do too much cocaine, but this time will be different. PROMISE ME YOU’LL REMEMBER.