“I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek!” Times two.

Today is my birthday. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I hope you will find it in your loving heart to leave good wishes (read: may your breasts not continue to sag toward your ankles*, **) to appease the comment/attention/gift/monetary remuneration whore you know I am.

Birthdays tend to go by without much to do for me, but the years they border have always been significant. Age 6. I can’t remember what I did for that birthday, but I recall spending the year attending an American school in London and being reprimanded for planting a kiss on a female classmate’s cheek. Within the year I would first play doctor while at a dinner party, utilizing miniature toy kitchen utensils. An adult walked in on us and I stood there incredulous while my patient zipped up his Healthtex pants. And thus began my undying quest for booty. (Strangely enough, this early sexual encounter lived well beyond our time as tykes living in England; we ended up attending the same New Jersey high school and frequently ignored each other in gym class, plagued by what could have been . . . )

Age 16. I’m lying. I remember this party well. A surprise that didn’t end up being quite the moment my family had hoped thanks to a freak snowstorm that revealed 30 pairs of teen footprints leading up to my back door. Someone brought a copy of Eddie Murphy RAW to the bash and my mother made an array of disapproving, I-wish-I-was-Catholic-to-smack-down-the-extra-guilt-on-you faces from the kitchen while Eddie talked about $*@!ing hos. We played Billy Joel songs on my Casio keyboard and a few friends played ping pong on the full-size table my parents erected in our den. God, we were dorks.

Age 22. My parents moved overseas. My sister and I regularly shared holidays huddled alone like orphans and comforted ourselves by eating heartily at hotel buffets. Upon moving in to my first home in the area, I immediately drove my 1987 LeBaron around the block five times because I couldn’t believe you could see the Washington Monument from the top of my street. I had sex one day and didn’t think much of it; clearly I didn’t know it would be four years before I’d do it again. (Don’t obsess over it; it’s a whole other post and you’ll be thankful to know that the streak is long over.)

Age 28. My first cat found me at a dive restaurant in rural Florida and I became a life-long dog person now bordering on feline obsession. He peed in the back of my ex’s Subaru and I got a teeny bit of gratification from it. I took Benadryl for the first time at my friend Kim’s house and passed out so hard I had to be carried to the car. I defended my thesis, left Florida, and Mom and Dad became my roommates for the first time in a decade. I had sex in a twin bed. Several times.

Ages 29, 30, 31. I drank my first Irish Car Bomb. I had a dream about marrying Dave Grohl and moving to rural Virginia, however the bubble popped when I realized I am vehemently opposed to both polygamy and rustic living. I fully embraced my love of crappy pop music by buying my first Britney Spears and Kelly Clarkson CDs. I was promoted. In a drunken Caps game moment I introduced my soon-to-be beau to my ex by saying, “This is Ronny. We used to have sex.” My best friend scared the crap out of me by going out and getting herself some blood clots. I saw a real mountain, mountain, went to California, and blogged for the first time. I told the beau I loved him for the first time in the feminine hygiene aisle of the CVS. I revealed my irrational fear of cyborgs to a coworker and she covered my Sentra with pictures of the Terminator and other metallic men. I didn’t see the borg on the side mirror until I was on the highway driving home. I almost ended up in the Potomac when I discovered it. (Sweet Jesus, I’m still a dork.)

Age 32. I’ll keep you posted.



*(Asterisk courtesy of Jordan Baker) Unacceptable birthday comments include, “Gee, you don’t smell a bit like Betty White!” and, “Are you 29 AGAIN?” and don’t forget about, “How did you used to celebrate birthdays without electricity?” or the ever-popular, “You shouldn’t take your osteoporosis pills with so much wine, should you?”

**Extra points will be awarded for any message involving crickets and/or a pun, cat humping, Shakespeare, haiku, New Jersey, your dog, Chardonnay, Democrats winning in VA, a movie involving a Jennifer Aniston we've never seen, the crisis of Christmas music starting right after Thanksgiving, or pizza.