Guess what this last weekend was? My birthday. Did you
get that? Did you write that down? Last weekend = MY
BIRTHDAY. Birthday. Mine.
In case you’re considering belated gift ideas, my favorite
color is “large diamonds.” And my birth stone is “money.”
In prior years, I have been left in the dark for my birthday
planning, which is probably a good thing. It is the one day
per year that El Dukay truly grabs the reins, so to speak,
and makes all the arrangements. So if you thought you
were supposed to be invited to some sort of party, and you
weren’t, don’t go blaming me. Blame El Dukay. He forgot
you. But don’t feel bad. He forgets lots of things.
But it would be difficult to forget MY BIRTHDAY, primarily
because I have been reminding him of the event since, oh,
LAST year. I give him pop quizzes (“QUICK WAKE UP
WHEN’S MY BIRTHDAY GO!”) and drop subtle hints “My
birthday is in thirteen days, nine hours, and seven
minutes. My birthday is in thirteen days, nine hours, and
six and a half minutes. My birthday...”)
Anyway. He didn’t forget, and I’m a pain in the ass. But my
last two birthdays have established that maybe I should find
a new party planner. Because somehow, things just
seemed to get all kinds of fucked up when it’s time to
celebrate my big day. It doesn’t matter how well everyone
has planned. It will end up being an experience of
profound sexual deviance. It really can’t be helped, but
there you go.
Two years ago, when I turned 25, I went out with a large
group of people. And we had some really great tequila
slammers, and then all the girls went home and left me with
all the boys. And actually, to be honest, I am one of those
guy-girls anyway. Most of my best friends in law school
were guys. So when the ladies went home, it really meant
that now, the party could finally get going. So when
someone suggested we go to a strip club, I agreed. And I
didn’t just agree. I believe I slurred something along the
lines of, “EssGO! Boooooobies! Oop. Fall down.”
So we went to the strip club, my twenty-four male friends
and my SELF, and this was all fun and good. Until they
decided to buy me a lap dance. Which should come to a
surprise to exactly nobody.
So all of a sudden, I hear my name being called over the
loudspeakers, and all the guys lift me and put me on the
stage. There’s a huge bouncer waiting for me, and he
helps me into a chair. He leans down to whisper into my
ear. He tells me not to touch the girls (don’t worry), and
then he tells me that the girls will be taking off my shirt.
“No, they won’t,” I said, suddenly sober. And suddenly
remembering that I was not wearing a bra.
“Yes, they will,” the bouncer told me.
“NO. They WON’T.” I said.
“YES. They WILL,” He said.
“Okay,” I said. I was a little scared of the bouncer. He was
But I also figured that there was no fucking way those
strippers were going to be able to get my shirt off of my
body. It would have to come off over my head! If I kept my
arms to my sides, there would be no possible way for that
shirt to come off! So I settled myself into the chair, locked
my elbows, and waited.
A few seconds later, the spotlights got all crazy and the
music swelled, and we all heard the sweet opening strains
of “My Angel is a Centerfold.”
Now, I’m sitting on the stage, in this chair, with twenty-four
of my best guy friends gathered around the stage. And I’m
facing the curtain area at the end of the catwalk. And I’m a
little nervous, but mostly, just entertained. And then, the
My blood runs cold!
And it did. Y’all, all of the strippers in the world came at me
at that moment. There were, like, six of them. And they
were all...shiny. And partly naked. And I am not kidding in
the slightest when I say that the only emotion that
registered in my mind in that split second? Was absolute
I sat there, frozen, as the first in line straddled my lap. My
arms were locked at my sides, and she placed both her
hands on my hips. And then – whoosh! Off went my top.
Na NA na na na na!
How did she DO that? I still don’t know. My arms! Were
LOCKED! They never BENT! It was like a mystery of
Anyway, she took my top and threw it into the crowd.
Which was very delightful of her. And then they all danced,
and I was topless, and I got to see all twenty-four of my
male friends standing there with their mouths gaping,
looking like a school of fish. And then I made forty-three
dollars and got two job offers before I managed to put
myself back into my top. What?
So that was twenty five. For twenty-six, I said, “Know
what? Let’s not have strippers this year. Let’s have a nice,
normal party at my favorite bar that is also owned by two of
my best friends.” And everyone agreed that this would be
nice. Until the day before, when one of those best friends
called me, having just hysterically remembered that he had
double booked the bar. It would be my birthday party. But
it would also be the annual drag queen show.
People. What kind of luck is that? Awesome luck, is what it
is. And the party rocked, though one of the drag queens
ate most of the cake.
Now, this year. I am 27. And El Dukay and my friends
threw me a party at the same bar as last year. And y’all,
guess the hell what? THE DRAG QUEENS! They were
BACK! Because apparently, some national drag queen
holiday falls on my birthday every year! And that makes
me the luckiest girl in the world.
So the short story is, it rocked. The longer story, in the
form of a picture essay, used to be here. But now it is
gone. To heaven. Because the only thing I didn't want for
my birthday was a lawsuit. So, bye pictures! Anyway,
happy birthday to me, and thank you to everyone for the
party, for the wishes, and for reading my little old site.
Kisses to you all.