Birthday Things

Cupcakes, C-sections and all.

I don’t know the story of the day I was born. Well, most of it. I know there was a C-Section. I know how much my mother wanted a girl. I know my dad took a Valium that made him hilarious in the delivery room, saying to the doctor upon said C-section, “Wow, just like a butcher!” It was a story my mother told for years, always laughing. There’s a photo album of the day, my mother tired and smiling, her hair more brown and platinum than the gray it became later. My dad is skinnier than when I knew him, a gold chain on his neck. I’m glad I have the album, some of the baby clothes, but a lot of the story is lost now. I remember that every year on my birthday. It looms in the background of dinners out and birthday candles, presents from loved ones and presents for me from me.

My first birthday after my mother passed, in between birthday meals on my special day off I wound up scream-crying in the basement bathroom of the Crosby Street Hotel, where I had wandered after buying myself goodies at Mercer Street Books. The walls were white and the doorknobs gold and I wore my mother’s black and white knit coat. I wondered if anyone could hear me, more out of curiosity than concern.

It’s a wild memory given how much I really do love celebrating my birthday. I always did–my mother loved celebrating it, too. Lots of parties, lots of preparation, lots of excitement leading to a big day of fun and sweets and friends and presents. I think I ended up loving it because she made it so clear it was such a special day. And it’s still a special day for me, but I do special in my own way now.

I used to throw parties, and I even did two years ago, but it got to the point where I was so concerned about pleasing everyone else that I forgot to have fun. I ended up enjoying the afters the most, slightly drunk and eating late-night goodies at Superiority Burger with a few friends. During the pandemic, it was too cold to celebrate my birthday outside so I didn’t plan anything, but friends began asking to take me out–it became a whole week of birthday celebrations, and this is what I do now.

At midnight on my birthday every year, I do a self-portrait. I started seven years ago, when I turned 30. But this year, in the middle of my session, moments after I started, a buzz came at the door. Chris had ordered a birthday cupcake for me, fluffy with white frosting and the rainbow sprinkles I love. He lit a match for a candle, and I blew it out, giving him a big squeeze and smooch.

Chris took me out for birthday breakfast at the little cafe around the corner, and later I went to Bloomingdale’s in the new shirt Alissa bought me, its neon tigers dancing across my chest. I was up on the 7th floor, gently spooning into frozen yogurt at Forty Carrots (the original is my favorite flavor, no toppings), then bopping around the store to see what I might want for my birthday, if anything. Turned out it was just the yogurt, which honestly is a pretty common occurrence. I often treat Bloomingdale’s like a museum where you can touch everything, though I also leave with items other than frozen yogurt, too.

The Miss Manhattan Reading fell on my birthday this year, and friends peppered the audience. I brought cupcakes but forgot to eat one, and then a few of us went out afterward, nibbling on guac and margaritas. Steven Jude took me to Joe Allen for dinner that Wednesday and then to Death Becomes Her–he had been wanting me to see it forever, and it did not disappoint, leopard lounging ensembles, marabou robes, rhinestone-encrusted frocks, and all. We sipped cocktails at Bar Centrale afterward, a hidden little place at the top of some townhouse stairs on West 46th Street. We saw Chazz Palminteri on his way into Joe Allen as we climbed.

I typically like to take my birthday off, but I had to work this year, so Saturday became a grand day out, with stops at Westbeth for their annual flea market, The End of History for their magnificent vintage glassware collection, a cozy lunch of spicy beef noodle soup at the sweet and petite Lin & Daughters, and yes, Bloomingdale’s once again (I had a coupon that didn’t start until 11/4 hehe).

Chris took me out for dinner and comedy that night. We tried Narkara, a new Thai restaurant with tart, sweet, chunky corn salad; crab coconut pancakes with dollops of spicy crab meat atop pools of creamy coconut; a platter of herbaceous, zingy Thai sausage and fresh vegetables; pork and jackfruit curry with juicy cherry tomatoes. We leisurely made our way down 6th Avenue to The Fat Black Pussycat for comedy–sometimes I think there’s nothing I love in the world more than seeing Chris laugh and laughing with him. It’s chilly when we tumble into a cab and come home.

Last but not least, a trip to the Museum of Art and Design for their new Jonathan Adler show, complete with translucent snail sculptures and a recreation of Adler’s studio. His quotes line the walls, and they’re about pottery but they have extensive uses:

“All potters are at the mercy of the mercurial kiln god. I never get too attached to anything because it could always blow up.”

“My work? I hope it’s chic and classique. But behind the scenes, the vibe in the design studio? We try to keep it carnie.”

“Handcrafted tchotckes are life enhancing!”

There’s joy and humor throughout–yes, it’s a museum, but we don’t have to take ourselves too seriously. We can make beautiful octopus stemware and boob mugs and still be serious artists, metaphors fully intact. A lesson for life and institutions alike.

And the grand finale, New York’s Preliminary for the annual Miss Comedy Queen drag pageant, Miss Big Adam’s Apple. Contestants arrive with the intent of making us laugh and sputter at their outrageousness. There are puppets, trombones, a recreation of the carpet from The Shining as an evening gown, and a full penis evening gown, bulging with veins and furry testicles that was “circumcised” onstage. God, I love this town.

So it looks like the story of my birthday isn’t one day. It wasn’t even one day this year. It’s something I get to keep writing. Even if I don’t have the first one, the second, third, fourth…however many, I do have the love, cupcakes, C-sections and all.