My Big Fat Fake Birthday

I’m a September baby, but you wouldn’t know it since I had my birthday party this past weekend. It all began when four of my august friends (see what I did there?) banded together to plan a group celebration at Le Lupanar. “It’ll be fun,” they gushed to each other. “We can take over the place and dance all night and…” “Ok-ok-ok, I’m in!!” I sighed like they had been begging me to join for ages (simply ages, dah-ling). Four pairs of eyes swiveled toward me in surprise and they struggled for a polite way to ask 1. who I was and 2. when my birthday was. I switched tactics. “Something something falls on Labor Day, and everybody’s always away that weekend, blah blah pity on me,” I said intelligently. They patted me on the head and told me I could be part of the August birthday party as a pity fifth. Score!

On the day of the party, my good friend Ctina treated me to an early birthday dinner at db townhouse because she knew how much I loved dining there during Restaurant Week. I revisited the Sea Scallops Benedict for the starter, I just had to. The salt-water tang of the scallops melded with the sharper savoriness of thin slices of chorizo sausage, which all got mellowed out by poached quail eggs laying on top. I broke their yolks with my fork and watched deep yellow rivulets slide along the smooth round surface of each scallop, pause at the edge, and then creep over and run thickly down its sides to pool upon the plate. An airy lobster foam completed the dish and melted like a dream in my mouth. I started thinking about how the foam was so light and the quail egg yolk so thick, that they were opposites, and I was simultaneously tasting the air and the earth. Or maybe that was just the wine talking! For my entree, I had seared medium rare tuna on a bed of couscous and tiny grasslike mushrooms. The waitress solemnly poured warm broth over the dish, bathing me and Ctina in a fragrant cloud of lemongrass and beets, light and vegetable sweet. When we somehow found room to attempt dessert, we sampled an Orange Blossom Panna Cotta (heavenly) and a Strawberry Shortcake Sundae (your childhood memories, one-upped by a master chef). True caffeine junkies that we were, we had several cups of coffee before heading out to the birthday party I’d muscled my way into.

Le Lupanar was amazingly fun! I worked for 5-1/2 years in book publishing before Black Wednesday hit, and the night was full of reunions with friends from all of the major houses. It was also a chance to mash all my groups together so that socializing could be easier (I love y’all but I’m lazy, yo). Alas, friendships were not to be forged since, as always, the night devolved into a series of dance-offs. Well. Not dance-offs in the sense that anyone actually knew how to dance. Hence the “off” part of that statement. There we were, publishing nerds in cocktail dresses or button-up shirts and khaki cargo shorts, pretending we knew how to crump. It was quite a sight. Meanwhile, at the bar beyond the dance floor battleground, one friend found a way around my No Shots policy by buying me many gin martinis (straight up with a twist, and I would prefer stirred not shaken, but trying telling that to an intimidating Manhattan bartender). Next time, I may just accept the shots. It would be less alcohol. In my gin-soaked haze, another friend appeared and presented me with a $2 bill upon which he penned a personalized haiku. Fitting, since we’re in the same writing group. Hours of “dancing” later (it feels more honest to include those quote marks), the best present of all arrived in the form of a car ride home. Whoo!

Gosh I wonder what’ll happen in two weeks when it actually is my birthday?

Viva las Shirley!

As those on Facebook know, I went to Vegas for a friend’s wedding.  It was a few weeks ago, but it has taken this long to process everything that went down!  In my three days there, I hit extemes in partying, relaxing and nature’ing (work with me).  I’ll start with the partying.  I know my audience.

The first night began with a room full of blonde wigs and Hollywood makeup artists wielding false eyelashes.  All wedding guests had to be dressed as either Marilyn (Monroe) or Elvis (Presley).  I chose to be Marilyn.  Finally, I had a chance to experience life on the other side of the great hair color divide.

Bewigged, red lipsticked and beauty mark drawn, I joined the gang for a cocktail in the lobby of the Bellage (the Bellagio and I are BFFs and have nicknames for each other;  my nickname is “room 1140”).  Tourists pointed at us and took pictures and waved like we were celebrities.  We waved back because we were feeling magnanimous.

After cocktails, we were bussed to Fremont Street, the original Vegas Strip with the Golden Nugget Casino and the winky cowboy sign.  Once there, we walked a red carpet and posed for the paparazzi.  At least, I hope they were paparazzi.  They could’ve just been old men with nice cameras.  Whatever.  We made somebody happy.

The party was amaaaazing!!  Thank goodness I never tried acid because the scene would have triggered a flashback for sure.  Everywhere I looked, there were flashing casino lights, sequin jumpsuits, sneering Elvii and pouting Marilyns.  I would turn and people would hand me giant hot dogs and whiskeys and sticks of cotton candy.  Showgirls pranced around with feather headdresses and peacock tails.  And just when I thought I had seen it all, a Cookie Monster Elvis emerged from the crowd and performed an energetic striptease!  Blue.  Fur.  Everywhere.

The entire street was covered with what appeared to be a curved awning, but was really a gigantic television screen.  At one point in the night, this ceiling screen began to flash pictures of the bride, Mandy, as the song “Mandy” played.  The street fell silent.  After the song finished, the words “Will You Marry Me?” appeared on the screen.  Everyone simultaneously swooned.  Even the slutty Cookie Monster.

After dancing for five or six hours, our crowd of Elvii and Marilyns crowded into the roadway of the Little White Drive-thru Chapel to cheer as the bride and groom got hitched in a pink Cadillac convertible.  It was almost too much for some.  One overly excited Elvis took a running leap onto the back of the Caddy and started performing hip gyrations.  I guess he wanted to give the happy couple his blessing.

That was just the first night.  The second night, the wedding party marched through a long corridor made of balloons to enter a mansion decked out in streamers, disco balls, blown-up yearbook photos and even more balloons.  The guests were all dressed up for prom, but everyone had different ideas of what “prom” meant.  My good friend, the Greek Goddess, did the 1980’s proud with a bright teal and fuchsia getup complete with a piece of tissue tucked into the bosom of her dress.  There was a happy hippie couple in matching Afros and white bellbottom suits.  And there were lots of nerds in plaid suits, hitched-up pants, pocket protectors and taped-up glasses.  In fact, I vaguely remember beating one up in my wine rage.  I’m sure he had it coming.  He was probably trying to talk smart to me or something.

In the back of the mansion, a photo booth masqueraded as a kissing booth, prompting many inappropriate photos of which we shall never speak.  Ahem.  And upstairs, in the master suite, models in lingerie fed guests champagne and strawberries.  Funny.  I don’t remember anything like that at my high school prom.  Guess I just can’t escape the porn.  The industry just sucks you in!

Those were the parties.  And believe me, what I described were just the highlights.  It may take me years before I fully process what happened in Vegas (do not complete that sentence with “stays in Vegas”).  On to the relaxing.

Aah the Bellage.  There was no better way to recover from the 10-hour parties than by laying in the sun by the pool and sipping on a Caesar.  I have no idea what was in a Caesar, but it was ten times better than a Bloody Mary and made my troubles go far, far away.

I hung out in a cabana on the first day.  That was pretty cool.  We lounged on slightly elevated ground and literally looked down on non-cabana people.  It ended awkwardly, however, when some sort of banker’s conference started to have a private party in the courtyard right next to the cabana and pool area.  I woke up from a lovely nap to find a hundred finance geeks in matching grey polo shirts and khakis staring at me in my bikini.  And I didn’t get a single date out of it.  Ouch.

On to the nature’ing.  A bunch of us got to tour the Grand Canyon via a small plane.  I was so relieved when it lived up (down?) to expectations!  When our plane first entered the canyon, the rock formations and valleys seemed impressive, but not mind-blowing.  I started to wonder if I was missing something when the bottom of the world suddenly dropped out.  I almost peed myself.  The Grand Canyon went so deep that I thought I would see the white hot lava at the center of the earth.  Or China (hi, grandma!).

Another group was brave enough to skydive into the canyon.  Wow.  I definitely would’ve peed myself if I did that tour!

At the end of the weekend, one of my friends rented a cherry red convertible and drove us out of the city and into Red Rock Canyon.  The views were spectacular!  The rocks were all different colors and shapes, and wimpy as I was, I managed to climb up a few of them.  Up there, I was engulfed by a blue sky with clouds that stretched into infinity, endless scrubby grass plains and a chain of mountains anchoring it all together.  It really put my tiny little dot of life into perspective.

That was my weekend in Vegas.  I felt like I lived an entire lifetime for each day that I was there!

Getting Clubbed, Part Two

(continued from Part One)

It was a bit dizzying to tilt my head up to watch naked body parts bouncing around over my head.  I tried to look around and take a visual break but mirrors everywhere reflected the performance.  It was better to just watch the stage with its one set of boobies instead of the 18 pairs reflected in the mirrors.

I rolled with it.  Maybe I was finally growing up.  Or maybe, more possibly, it was all the scotch I’d had.   They continued to play good music so I bopped along.  The girls were good dancers.  I noticed a few moves I wanted to try.  You know, with clothes on.  I was just starting to admire how brave they were to prance around so exposed when a soft body bumped against me.

“Hello?”  I said to no one in particular.  My scotch was still full (I was slowing down after my eighth glass) so it wasn’t the cocktail waitress.  I kept staring at the scotch like it was going to answer me when a lightly Eastern European accent informed me that the manager had sent them over to dance for me.

Wait wait wait, them??  I looked up, hoping Eastern European girl was referring to her breasts in an anthropomorphic way.  But no.  There was a second girl up there, standing silently next to her.  They were both smiling down at me while the Editrix and her friends laughed so hard that tears rolled down their faces.

Meanwhile, Eastern European and the Silent One had parted my legs and started dancing between them.  I mentally patted myself on the back for choosing the romper, which was perfect for this sort of thing.  Then they pulled their dresses off, and then all I could think was that I needed to hit the gym a helluva harder.  Holy moly, their bodies were perfect!

Then they each straddled one of my legs and started doing something like the Worm against my body.  They would swoop their bodies against mine and then slowly slide upwards against me so their chests would rub up against my face and head before they made it back up into open air where they would gyrate for a while before coming back in for another pass.  Sort of like those crazy city pigeons that almost fly into your face when you’re walking.

I worried that my necklace might hurt them.  Then I wondered if they ever injured themselves on men’s shirt buttons.  I mean.  Nipples are sensitive!  Then I started wondering how they timed themselves.  Because they alternated really well.  First, Eastern European would swoop in and mush me for a while.  Then the Silent One.  Then they’d gyrate and smile at me and lick their fingers or something.  Then it would start all over again.

I thought about making conversation but quickly realized that opening my mouth would make the encounter that much more intimate.  Plus, what would one tip for that sort of thing?  Emily Post provides zero guidance.

Maybe it was the repeated mushings or maybe the dancers were really good at putting people at ease.  I mean, there had to be male customers who were even more awkward than I was, right?  Anyway, I just stopped thinking after the first minute.  They were soft and I was comfortable once they had mushed me far enough into the couch that I just relaxed and leaned back.  They smelled nice, too.

Hey, wait.

One of them smelled like the lotion I had at home.  I tried to sniff them and figure out which one.  You’d think it would be easy since they were naked and in my face, but it was difficult because my nose was constantly squashed under one boob or another.

So there I was, nearing the end of the song when, from their point of view, I suddenly became way more interested than I had been for most of their performance.  I was lifting my head off the seat and sniffing them as they danced their chests off the top of my head, trying to catch the light scent of my lotion on one of them.  The song ended, and they looked confused but gave me a friendly smile anyway.

The Silent One hightailed it out of there.  Couldn’t say I blamed her.  Eastern European hung around a minute longer though.  Long enough for me to confirm that she was, indeed, wearing the same lotion.  I had been going around smelling like a high class stripper without knowing it.  Then she said she liked my necklace and walked away.

I waved like she was my best friend on the playground and yelled “Goodbye!”  The Editrix shook her head and told me the night was over.

Getting Clubbed, Part One

It must have been pretty obvious I had no idea what to do as I approached the entrance of the gentleman’s club.  The doorman smiled politely.  And then asked if I needed directions.

“Umm no, I’m coming here.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

He ID’d me.

I kept talking, nervously explaining.  “Well, you know, they’re launching a new magazine and I’m a writer and I dressed up and everything!”  For some reason I bobbled my head so he could see my dangly earrings flash in the light.

He wasn’t impressed but was nice enough to pretend he was.  With a flourish, he swung one of the giant double doors open for me.  Once inside, I started wandering.  I saw a stage but no naked people yet.  I checked my watch.  Maybe I was early.  I kept wandering.

It was surprisingly nice inside, all darkly gleaming mirrors and plush upholstery.  “Can I help you?”  A friendly 8-foot-tall security guard in a tailored suit looked askance at me.

Christ on a stick, was it really that obvious??  I had dressed up and everything!  (A lovely teal romper, by the way.  It seemed the perfect choice.  I was showing plenty of leg without having to fear the unintentional flashing associated with short skirts.  I also wore tights to make doubly sure I was covered.)

“I’m a writer,” I said proudly.  “And I’m here for the Full Experience!”  In my attempt to convey bravado, I spoke a bit too loudly.  The skimpily clad servers and the two small groups of men in the room all turned to stare at me.  Well.  Most of them were already staring because I had been walking around in circles (quickly because I thought that showed confidence).

“Oh, you’re the writer!”  To my relief, the guard seemed to know what I was doing there.  That made one of us.  “Have a seat, have a seat.”  He placed me on the banquette directly in front of the main stage.  The wall behind the stage had flickering television screens of dancing silhouettes writhing seductively.  Roving beams of deep blue light swept across the ground.  They were playing good music so I wanted to dance.  But it wasn’t exactly the time or place.  Or proper amount of nakedness, I guess.

“Shirleeeeey!”

The woman who had interviewed me, let’s call her The Editrix, arrived.  She was technically wearing a shirt.  It was silver and hung so low in the front that calling what I could see “cleavage” would have been like calling the Atlantic Ocean “wet.”

Meanwhile, dancers had started filing into the room wearing the dresses I had always seen in sex shop windows displayed next to vibrators and nipple clamps.  So that’s who bought those dresses.  One mystery was solved.

The Editrix ordered scotches for us and slid onto the couch next to me.  Somehow her shirt stayed on.  I marveled, at both its engineering and her confidence in wearing something so revealing.

“What do you think?”

“They’re impressive.”  I nodded and stopped short of asking how much they cost.

“Who, the dancers?”  Wow, she named them?  Oh wait.  She was asking me about the club, not her breasts.  Oops.

Saved by the scotch.  Our drinks arrived and the show began.  I felt like a little girl as I sat there sipping my drink through a little straw and watching the stage with wide open eyes.  Boobies!!

The Editrix laughed and I mentally checked that I hadn’t yelled my last thought out loud.  “How’s your first time?” she teased.  I giggled.  Goddamn it.  When will I grow up?

Then she asked if I wanted to meet the chef and have dinner.  Hells to the yeah!  Food porn was more my speed.  I gulped down the rest of the scotch, sent our server off for another round and nodded at the Editrix.  “Let’s do this.”  Umm.  Ok.  I’m sure what I really did was gush, “Oh golly gee, may I??” but whatever.  For all you know I could’ve been cool.  Snap, snap.

The chef was really nice.  In fact, let me take a moment to say that all the men in the club were really nice.  No hint whatsoever of a creepy pervert vibe.  It probably helped that I was dressed like a Puritan compared to everyone else.  But still.  They were all gentlemen.

And I was wholeheartedly not a lady.  At least not once the food and my third (or was it fourth?) scotch arrived.  My lamb chop entree was perfect.  Tender, juicy and exactly the shade of deep soft pink that medium rare lamb should be.  There were at least five chops on my plate.  I leaned in and inhaled the sweet fragrant meat.  If a designer ever bottled that scent, I would finally wear perfume.

The Editrix had a politely sized steak in front of her and offered me a bite.  I took it.  Then I ate everything on my plate.  Then I polished off the sides: a bowl of savory sauteed mushrooms and a creamy potato gratin with salty bacon and a crispy crust on top.  As I pulled a forkful of gratin towards my mouth, I actually licked strands of cheese out of the air with my tongue.  The Editrix looked mesmerized as she watched me eat.  I wondered if my face had a similar look when I was watching the dancer on stage earlier.

Another scotch appeared.

I was too full for dessert and too happy to care.  I waddled after the Editrix back into the main room, which had filled up with a lot more customers.  I had clothes on and smelled like meat.  None of the men even glanced at me.  Goodie.  I made a mental note to wear sweatpants next time.  Maybe I could cram in more food on my next visit.

A few of the Editrix’ friends joined us and made us sit right next to the stage.  I didn’t even like to do that in comedy clubs, craaaap!  Then another scotch appeared.  My one weakness.  I wonder what gave it away.

(to be continued)