Nov
01

I Never Learn.

Here I am, freshly embarked upon the last year of my twenties. My birthday was yesterday, and it was a particularly lovely one. In the morning Scott ran out to procure us breakfast, and I spent the rest of the morning lolling about watching House and opening my presents, including this romantical poster (I have the dearest husband).
Later I got myself all tarted up for my party: hair up, slim black Joan Holloway dress with a belt added, improbably high heels that will one day be the death of me. And last but not least, a boa-constrictor-like undergarment that extended from my chest to my knees. I got the hiccups in the car on the way to my party, and then FOUR MORE TIMES over the course of the evening. The first two times I beat them by manually compressing my midsection near the diaphragm, a handy if odd-looking little trick I should teach you sometime. The third time my friend finagled a shot glass of sugar from the bartender and brought it and a glass of water to me in the dressing room. I don’t see why it should work, but after sprinkling some sugar on my tongue and then sipping from the glass, it did, and my hiccups vanished. The fourth time I decided that the problem must be my girdle, so I locked myself in a stall and shimmied out of it. Okay, I didn’t shimmy so much as struggle manfully, but I wrested myself free of the damn thing and shoved it in my handbag. The last bout occurred as I was leaving, and in a fit of pique on my way to the car I took off the belt I had cinched under my bosom and…well it was the last time the hiccups troubled me all night, so I suppose it was the belt all along.
I am a chronic hiccuper, a condition I seem to have passed on to Simone, who gets the hiccups at least once a day. She is most likely doomed to be the recipient of others’ ham-handed attempts to cure her of her affliction—did I ever tell you about the time Scott tried to scare me out of my hiccups by saying he was leaving me? My hiccups did indeed stop, probably because I was SO BUSY CRYING. He still feels guilty about that, as well he should. “Well it worked,” he reminds me whenever I bring it up.

Anyhow, hiccups aside, I had a lovely birthday party. Scott stayed home with the baby, and the festivities convened in the lounge of La Belle Vie, the restaurant where my brother works. I had a delicious caramel appletini, garnished with blue-cheese stuffed grapes, and then a sidecar, and a miniature something else, and then another something after that. There were lamb burgers and truffle-flavored potato chips with brie dip and eight of my favorite people. Here, see for yourself:
Birthday!
That is my brother, sitting there with me. He is absolutely wonderful, and every bit as charming as he looks. Few people can master the unselfconscious ascot, and he is second only to myself in appreciation of puns. In fact, the 7th grade “best of both whorls” incident that Scott finds so groan-worthy? Max refers to it as the PUNNACLE of my achievement. My brother and I have an imaginary comedy troupe, you know, called “Noel & Coward.” (I am Coward, naturally). He is the only person in the world whom I can depend upon to get every single one of my jokes, because we share nearly identical senses of humor.
Speaking of which, humor me and pretend that my giant, fleshy arm is the result of unflattering perspective and not the surfeit of carbohydrates I wedged down my gullet during my mother’s recent visit, won’t you?

So yes, I am twenty-nine now, and birthdays being what they are, a girl cannot help but reflect on the years past. Last year on my birthday, I posted my most recent ultrasound pictures of the Science Babies, who were about 12 weeks gestation. Science Baby B will be nine months old in a week:
Wide eyes

I have decided once again to subject myself to NaBloPoMo. The first year I managed to make good use of at least a few of my 30 posts—one of them is still among my favorites, and last year my 30 included a series of letters to my babies that I suspect Simone may like to read someday. Will I manage to eke out anything worth reading this year? Doubtful, but if not I can always resort to pictures of myself with barnyard animals or stories of faking the death of a childhood pet. Stay tuned!

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |