It's Good to be 40. It's Good to be seen!

Here we are, post my 40th birthday celebration (which was on the 23rd), and post my actual birthday (the 24th), and you should know that I got so drunk that I fell and hit my head on a street curb and ended up in the emergency room with a concussion. Not really. I did, however, get buzzed enough that I turned some poor guy into a human puppet. (I’ll get to that later.)

The great part is…it’s official. As the title of my blog entails, I am a member of the fabulous 40s. BTW, I am completely aware of the fact that the title “The Fabulous 40s” is not only lame, it's also obscenely generic. Ya gotta admit, though, at least I’ve got 10 years worth of material where unless the 40s become frightful, which I highly doubt, no title change is required. (Ah…can you smell the convenience?)

Most of my favorite people were in attendance at my birthday celebration. I made out with some pretty awesome loot, too, and the booty is still coming. (Thanx, Ava, for the Victoria Secret schtuff! I am gonna shmell so good.) Truth be told, I am not usually about the getting-of-the-birthday gifts. In fact, I often give presents on my birthday as a way of letting the people who show up for me in life know that it is the gift of their friendship that I am most grateful for. Yes, I am proudly that sentimental. I like to think that I am also smart enough to know how fortunate I am. But, why not get gifts? It was, after all, a milestone of a birthday turning 40. That said, I got some pretty dang-cool jewelry and the surprises that came my way were even cooler (is that a word?). Okay, they were bitchener. (Worse?)

My friend Vican didn’t just bring her amazing smile, she, and her hubby, Ward (although, unfortunately, Ward didn’t come as he was home sick) gave me the neatest one-of-a-kind art ring. It looked like a bunch of jade grapes, only the pomegranate-shaped beads were configured in more of a circular cluster, much like the many art-deco cocktail rings I’ve seen. I just love that my friends know my jewelry taste: funky and chunky and/or simple and unique, but almost always sliver, beads, seeds, Lucite or leather, but never (EVER) sparkly, girly, gaudy or gold. Of course, gaudy is up to the eye of the beholder, and some might say that my taste does, at times, lean towards the Bohemian chichi, but the eyes on me ain't behold'n no gold. (Gold is fine, just not my style.)

Mine eyes might take in some sparkly, eventually, as a little dazzle is necessary for one of the rings coming my way, but that's where the simple-for-that-kind-of-sparkle will likely prevail. Princess cut, please. Platinum should probably also make an appearance, but ornate, for that? Nope. No can do.

(I know. That was seriously among the most retarded-est of tangents. Who do I think is reading this: my future husband?)

My friend Rena, who gave me the gift of a beautiful sliver and earthen-red beaded bracelet (and brought a yummy cake loaded with candles for my birthday wish), was the one who got the party started when she bought me my first drink, a dirty vodka martini. I knew the party was getting good as soon as everyone began to make more and more toasts and I started to notice some slurring going on, which was, um, all me. In hind sight, it might have been a wiser choice to turn down the 2nd dirty drink (the restaurant’s free contribution to my 40th celebration) and stick with my usual libation of choice: red wine. Not to worry. In no time at all, after I deftly mixed my liquor choices and made the switch to red wine, I drank myself sober. Which is either the truth, or I just quit noticing that my tongue was wrapping gauze around my words.

No matter, by the time my dinner guests started reviewing the different pictures of me (at various ages), which one of my best friends, Emily, and my sister, Lyn, had brought to lovingly roast me and thereby entertain everyone else, I think the whole group was slurring a bit. They might have been spitting up a little, too. How could they not? Seeing a picture of me from the late eighties sporting Pamela-Anderson-type-bleach-blonde hair, Rod-Stewart-type bangs, and donning a satin-purple-type women’s suit jacket (with I’m-a-friggen-foot-ball-player shoulder pads) is enough to make anyone lose it.

But it’s great, you know? All my friends are now privy to some of my awkward stages. I’m sure everyone feels like my dork-ish-ness helped them bond. (You’re welcome, friends.) But, I ask you: What’s wrong with a 2nd grader who has a bad parted-in-the-middle hair cut, who is wearing tortoiseshell glasses that make her look like a mosquito, and who is missing a couple of teeth? That’s how they were doing it in the mid-ish 1970s. (This means I’ve always been cool.)

My sister Lyn had also worked with my friend Fae to put together a birthday card for me. What made this card so wonderful, and I highly suggest doing this for anyone you love (as it made me feel incredibly special), was that they were putting the card together as the night was playing out. Fae had each of my dinner quests take a Polaroid picture with me, and then Lyn would insert each of these snap shots into a ready-for-it slot within the card/scrap book that she’d pre-made. She then had each friend sign their name/note next to the photograph. How awesome is that? It’s about as great as the questionnaire was that Lyn and Emily had also put together.

What sort of sucked about the questionnaire (well, was a little embarrassing) was that I didn’t know all the answers to this fun little exploration into me. I had to ask my sister and Emily for help. What I loved was watching my friends trying to cheat to fill in their answers, thus attempting to prove that whatever group they were working within was the group who knew me the best. There is no better feeling than watching people working dis-honestly in union towards piecing together pieces of you, especially since there were no prizes. The cockles of my heart were better than warmed.

More than anything, having my sister Lyn and Emily put that questionnaire together, and seeing that they were able to come up with things about me that were funny and quirky, and unique to me, and having so many people show how much they’ve also noticed who I am, and what I am all about, well, it made me feel honored. I felt incredibly loved and cared for. Everyone in the world just wants to be listened to, just wants to be known and appreciated, and, more than anything, seen. And there I was, sitting in the company of a table full of people who were essentially saying, “We not only see you, and love you, we’re enjoying doing so!”

Another wonderful gift I received, even before my birthday celebration, was a CD compilation of many of my favorite songs, and many songs that remind both Jen and Emily of me. Wow, that Jen and Emily worked together on this CD, and that Jen burned it, when Jen hates doing shit like that as much as I do (computer-home-administrative type things), brought me to happy tears, which my poor friend Mari had to endure as I opened the CD while on the phone with her. Man, I am such a sap. (But, thnx, again, Mari, for such a fun pre-birthday call to set my celebration weekend in motion!)

The point is: It was an amazing birthday.

Blessed. That’s what I am.

Again, I really would suggest doing the questionnaire and/or picture thing for someone you love on their birthday, or for any special occasion. It's such a gift. But I'd leave out the dark crack spot in their life, which is, pathetically, why I probably didn’t know all the answers to the questions about myself. It’s all that crack cocaine I did, so many of my memories got blacked out. Alright, that never happened. I wasn’t a crack head; I was a drunk. Okay, I’m lying again. I was never a drunk, nor am I now. I'm a perfectly functioning alcoholic.

You know what? I bet I really have sustained a blow to my head. Not the drunk-hitting-my-head-on-the-curb thing I lied about at the onset of this blog entry, but some other blow to the head entirely that I am not recalling. That would not only account for my inability to remember certain events about my life, that my sister and one of my best friends is apparently able to recollect, it might also explain this perpetual pension for lying. (Just a thought.)

After my birthday dinner most of my loving crew went home, but I had Emily, and my friends Winn and Rick, willing to hang tough with me and get one last drink. (We professionals like to maintain a good birthday buzz.) The problem was, when you get four people together who are in their late 30s, and one who has just turned 40, no one wants to stand in line or pay a cover just to get one last drink. So, we stood on the sidewalk instead, just outside the bar that was to be our last option for having no line or no cover, and we pouted. We would have gone into the bar, but it was closed; hence the sidewalk loitering and the wondering what to do next.

Our pouting group of four was immediately joined by four more pouters (two couples) who were also unwilling to stand in line for their next/last drink. Then, what started out as eight annoyed people became a party. Not five minutes later, two twenty-something girls happened upon our sidewalk soiree, and these inebriated gals (obviously not professionals) offered us up a cheer. “Yes! Yes!” we encouraged them. And, while they were barely able to maintain their balance between kicks and squeals, they weren’t half bad. The exuberant support emanating from car passengers and the honking of the passing cars’ horns inspired continued spirit from our cheer captains.

Then our little blitzed-cheer-o-matics were off. Gone in a poof with our cheerleaders was the apparent wife of one of our two fellow pouting couples. Not to worry. Turns out wifey number one was a fake wife. She’d only just met, and latched onto, the brother of the wife belonging to couple number two. (Still with me on this?) To put it another way, another snockered reindeer girl, besides our cheering Donner and Blitzen, fake wifey, was roaming 2nd st./Belmont shores, and when they had all first happened upon us (my birthday group) and we had asked her (fake wife) how long she’d been together with brother (fake husband) she lied. She said, “Five years,” and brother, Mr. boozed-up, went along with her, even though they’d only met not but five minutes earlier. Imagine that: Someone making shit up. Odd.

As if that all wasn’t enough entertainment, more was to come. Next, and what is perhaps the strangest part of this social sidewalk gathering, I somehow managed to give my number (cell phone and home number, no less), to some zipped-up guy who, trust me when I say this, not only did NOT want my number, he ran off down the street to get away from me.

Welcome. We now get to the part of the evening where I turn a strange guy into a human puppet. How could this ever happen, you may find yourself asking. “Easy,” I’d answer. First, add to the mix two more newcomers showing up, who we will call Zipper and Party Guy, who had proceeded towards the same closed club that had us all dwelling on the sidewalk in the first place. Then, add me telling Zipper and his friend that the club was closed (I was honestly just trying to do them a favor so that he and Party Guy wouldn’t waste their time trekking up the stairs to the locked club door). Mix in a little more Party guy, who was a cup full of lacking-all-apparent-respect for Zipper’s soon-to-be-found-out tight-ass personality, and said, “Hey, everyone. Zipper here has a boat. Why don’t we all go party on his boat?”

Zipper, he didn’t like that. He shot Party Guy a look that could choke baby ducks. That’s when I, trying to side with Zipper, and let Zipper know that I was feel’n him (that his Party Guy friend had no right to invite people to a boat that wasn’t his own), went over to Zipper’s sweater (which was zipped midway to his chest at this time) and proceeded to zip it the rest of the way up, and (making a voice which was intended to be Zipper’s), I said “Dude? WTF? I’m not letting these strangers onto my boat. What are you thinking?” Then, because that wasn’t already enough of a gross infringement upon Zipper’s personal space, I zipped his sweater almost all the way down, and said, “Nah. Just kidding. You know what? Let’s do it. Let’s brings these jokers onto my boat and party our assess off. Who cares if they could be thieving ax-murderers. It’ll be fun.”

I should have stopped there. But I didn’t. I zipped his sweater back up, and said, “Dude! Seriously! Why would you invite a bunch of sidewalk freaks onto my boat? How irresponsible can you be?” And, because this was not one of my finest moments, I went for the zipper yet one more time and I zipped that black, cable-knit, Banana-Republic look’n sweater of his right on down, again. Then, I said, “You know what, man? I change my mind. Let’s all go party on my boat. The liqueur is on me.”

What’s worse? While my friends know I am an ass, who loves any opportunity offering a laugh, and know I am also a diplomat, who loves just as much any occasion to play mediator/devil’s advocate, and with this knowledge were therefore laughing at me, hysterically, Zipper thought everyone was laughing at him. He was so butthurt that before I recognized that I’d turned him into a human puppet he’d high-tailed it out of there and had made it two blocks away before I even knew he was gone.

Who could blame him? In hind-sight…certainly not me. Yet, my charade had somehow convinced Party Guy that Zipper and I were a match made in heaven. Party Guy even said, “Oh, shit. You guys are perfect for each other. He needs to marry you!” So, Party Guy decided to call Zipper via cell phone and then he asked me to convince Zipper to come back. Now, feeling a little regretful that my sense of humor sent someone packing, I was more than happy to oblige and offer my heartfelt apology. Only Zipper wasn’t answering his phone. So, Party Guy thought it would be a good idea to hand his phone to me. That’s when he said, “Give him your phone number.”

In my infinite-liquored wisdom, I complied. It was, however, also my boozed brain that had me wondering if the cell number I was relaying of mine was even correct. I thought: Better give him my home phone; I think I can remember that one. Then, just as the last digit left my lips, my brain went kerplunk, and I said to Party Guy, “Dude!? What am I doing!? Your friend does NOT want my number!”

So? Think Zipper will call? Me neither.

That’s okay. In my defense, Party Guy was pretty cute, too, and he appeared to be Italian, so my lopsided reasoning had me thinking that by giving Zipper my phone number I was, in effect, making it accessible to Party Guy, the Italian. And since Zipper wasn’t Italian, Spanish, or Greek, and though I am usually into Scottish/English looking boy-next-door types, like Zipper appeared to be, last year a psychic told me I’d be marrying a man of one of those descents (Italian, Spanish, or Greek, which we will hereafter refer to as the ISG-Trifecta) so Party Guy was, probably, in my buzzed stupor, the real digit target. I hope so, because I’d hate to think a little buzz makes me stupid enough to thrust my number upon the un-wanting

By the way, can you see now that I may not be the self-fulfilling-prophecy lunatic I might have appeared to be when I said I was going to meet my husband this year? A psychic helped me get to this self-fulfilling place. It was here that told me I’d meet him my husband-to-be this year. (Wait. That probably didn’t prove my rationality.)

Coincidently, an Italiano is just who sat next to me when Emily and I went to a late Birthday breakfast the very next morning. A Mr. Adorable Italiano, that is. Sadly, Mr. Adorable didn’t have the same idea as my psychic. Sure, he flirted with me, made it obvious that he was single and didn’t have kids, asked me a zillion questions about myself, used his deep, sensual, chocolate-brown eyes to smile at me before the corners of his mouth polished off his every grin, and, he finished half my jokes and most of sentences (leaving me to believe that if I was not going to marry this guy we were, at least—by way of our synchronicity—going to have hot sex for a couple of months), but then he…to my dismay…didn’t ask for my number.

No sir. When Emily got up to go to the bathroom, giving Mr. Adorable what she, too, believed was an opportunity he’d appreciate (to ask for my number without the witness of a best-friend watching on), he didn’t bite. Instead, he got up, extended his hand, smiled an even more devastatingly charming grin than all the previous ones he’d been torturing me with all morning, and said, “Leven, it was really nice to meet you and your friend Emily. I have to take off now, but Happy Birthday…you and your friend are really funny. Thanks for a really entertaining breakfast.”

That’s when I started to wonder if he meant that Emily and I (me especially), were like clowns, funny tasting (hard to swallow) and not at all funny-charming, like with brilliant senses of humor. So, as he walked away into the sunset, I consoled myself with the fact that either, A. I was just too much woman for him, or B. He was probably only eager to leave because he was on his way to watch the 2010 Super Bowl play offs (he’d said something earlier about going to his friend’s house to do so). Since I didn’t even know who was playing, or that the Super Bowl play offs were going on (until my dad told me that morning when he called to wish me happy birthday), I assured myself that Mr. Adorable was not my man. Imagine. Me with a football love’n man? An artist with a sporty? A writer with a meat-head? Makes no sense at all.

Okay, so he was the furthest thing from a meat-head, as he was quite charming, witty and intelligent and smelled like a wonderful mass of GQ come-and-get-me potion (and there’s absolutely no problem with him liking sports), but work with me on this bruised ego.

He wasn't attracted to me. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t mean that I am unattractive or funny tasting. A couple of weeks ago a guy who works at Lowe’s in the plumbing dept. thought I was plenty appealing. He even gave me his business card and told me that I should, and I quote, "Call him anytime. ANY time." So there is really no reason for my ego to be bruised, right? (Yeah. Still a little bruised.)

Plus, as my friend Shane, who I am happy to report came to spend the rest of my actual birthday with me, said, “What is meant to be will always find a way.” While she may have said this in reference to the fact that we are both so elated that we've recently reconnected via Face Book (we were best-best-BEST friends in Jr. High and lost touch when I switched High Schools), I see no reason why this particular saying cannot be applied to the situation with Mr. Adorable. Obviously, he was not my meant-to-be, else he would have found a way.

There. That’s done. I’ve tucked Mr. Adorable nicely into an Everything-that-does-or-does-not-happen-happens-as-it-is-or-isn’t-supposed-to-happen box.

And that, my friends, everything from being surrounded by all my amazing friends on the 23rd, and spending the 24th with Shane (which included another fabulous birthday dinner and an amazing/fun girl chit-chat session ‘til 12:00 am), to two near misses with cute boys, is what I call an amazing birthday weekend!

I felt so utterly blessed by it all that I was bursting with joy the whole time.

It is because I felt so seen and so loved, that I want you to know that you are seen and you are loved, too. I see you. Yes, while it may seem like I am taking liberties when I say that I see you, I want you to know that I mean it. I really do see YOU! Hence the picture that I decided to upload: Me seeing you.

Alright, I know what you are thinking, that I chose that picture because it disguises me enough that it allows me to maintain some of my anonymity so that no one I work with or no one who doesn’t know this is my blog can recognize me. You got me. However, while you’d be incredibly astute in this line of thinking, I also really liked the idea that the picture I chose to represent myself in this blog would also serve to symbolize one of the things I have written about, and will continue to write about, and that is that in one way or another…we ALL see each other.

Even when we jeopardize our emotional survival by forgetting that we’re all connected, we STILL see each other. We still bleed the same blood, laugh the same happiness, experience the same energy, fear the same fears, and long for the same love.

And, you are probably also thinking that if you do not know me, and we may never meet, how can I ever see you?

I can because I believe that the truth of our connection continues to remain the truth—that we are all intertwined and carry within us a deep knowing of this universal alliance to the same energy—and that even though we may not always recognize this truth in our present circumstance(s), this truth persists. This truth gives me great comfort, and I hope it does you, too.

Keep being fabulous!