In the Beginning There was a Really Big Belly Under a Christmas Tree

This is the story of my birth as I've always told it and I fully expect that my mom will read this and immediately be scandalized by my bastardization of the details in a story that is rightfully much more hers than mine. As a bonus I'm also going to throw in the story of my brother's birth because it's related and because it might further annoy my mom which will teach her for learning about the internet. (Private to AngryMom in CA: At least your daughter shares her blog with you, most moms aren't that lucky! Let her slide on the embellishments, after all she's been stuck in an entire year of writer's block, she needs this!).

I was born on January 5th 1978 (mark your calendars! shop post Christmas sales for presents!) which was about 2 weeks later than I was supposed to be born thus affording my mom and dad the luxury of taking a hilarious picture of her huge belly under the Christmas tree with a big bow wrapped around it -- to this day I'm sure my mom finds much irony in the thought that I would be a great gift and not just a never ending source of lost sleep and so much eye rolling (like all babies I'd like to thank Mother Nature for those awesome post pregnancy hormones that made me lovable despite not being very lovable -- I'm not sure who I should thank for giving mom the strength not to try literally slapping me out of my funk every day of my life from age 13 through 17).

I actually know very little of what happened between me playing the part of Christmas package and being born. I assume at some point on the 4th or 5th of January there was a rushed ride to the hospital and hours of screaming and you know, blood and doctors and such but mom was never one to regale me with "Do you know how much pain I went through to bring your sorry ass into the world?" I was born in the hospital where my mom worked as an ER nurse (and now works as the Nursing Supervisor) so the birth was well attended and mom claims much of it was broadcast over the nurses' walkie talkie system. This seems insanely cruel -- can you imagine all of your coworkers listening in on you giving birth to your first kid? Strangely mom never mentions killing whoever made this happen (I assume not talking about the murder is all part of the mass cover-up -- good job mom.).

And then, you know -- here I was (the sun came out from behind the clouds, the heavens smiled, the birds sang, national holiday, etc). But the real hilarious bit of this story starts when we get out of the hospital. I'm not sure how long my new family was actually home before my mom had to be returned the the hospital because there was a lot of blood not staying in her body where it belonged, but it wasn't long -- maybe a day or so. So back to the hospital where mom is admitted to the ICU (that's right folks, the hilarious part of the story is when my mom gets put into intensive care! good times!) and so they're wheeling her away and dad's standing there all "Hey, dudes, you forgot the baby! HAHA!" and the dudes (in this case doctors) are all, "No, it's cool the baby is FINE, take her on home!" And then dad is all "But! DUDES! Please god take the baby back! What the hell am I supposed to do with her when I don't have the magic milk producing body parts!?!?" And then I think his head explodes and he gets put in ICU too. No, just kidding, he goes home and calls my aunt all "Doctors are such bitches, please come help me before I kill your niece."

Let me pause here to say that my dad is super amazing and I'd hate for this story to make him sound incompetent but that's kind of what makes it a good story and my dad is hopefully so awesome that he doesn't mind being the butt of this particular joke. But just in case he's a little miffed I offer this proof of his awesomeness as a counterbalance: Because my mom worked nights growing up my dad was Mr. Mom every morning and he kicked major ass at everything from packing lunches to making a full breakfast (seriously people we had eggs and fruit and bacon or banana pancakes or french toast EVERY MORNING, dude was not fucking around). He was slightly less awesome at doing my hair as evidenced by my 3rd grade school picture where I appear to be rocking some sort of half crimped/half bed head combo do but I've mostly stopped blaming him for my "nerd table" lunch status that lasted through to high school (after all it wasn't him who forced me to join the math team, that was ALL ME). And also: I'm fine, he took me home as a newborn without my mom and totally didn't kill me so GOOD JOB DAD.

Now back to the story. Mom gets better, I learn to walk, everyone is happy.

So fast forward a couple of years and mom is rocking the bump again, my only real memory of her being pregnant with my brother is a conversation about baby names that took place in the car in which I refused to even discuss the possibility needing to consider boy names. I also seem to remember having strong feelings about naming my baby sister Michelle. So April 9th rolls around and again with the hospital and the pain and the breathing exercises. Only this time it sucks even more because my baby brother was born breach (As an older sister this was a god send -- oh the years of "born butt first like a real butt head!" jokes! HILARIOUS) and things really did not go well. Basically my mom died. She lost a ton of blood, she flat lined and while the doctors worked on bringing her back to life (note: successfully, thanks dudes!) she went on a little ride through the dark tunnel to meet with none other than Jesus Christ.

Mom and JC are up on a hill you know, chillin' when he brings up the awkward elephant in the room (er... the field...the heaven?). "So, Kay, umm you have a couple of kids back there in the world who kind of need a mom, you can't let Horst raise them alone, he can't handle it." That's right folks -- JESUS didn't believe in my dad's single parenting skills. And my mom is basically all, "no J-dawg, it's groovy, Horst has this shit! I'm gonna just chill here, lay back on a cloud, take some harp lessons, you know, angel stuff." Luckily our lord and savior is having none of it and basically pushes my mom back down the long dark tunnel and into her body. So big thanks to Jesus for giving me my mom back, I totally forgive you for misjudging my dad's parenting skills. And mom? I'm not even angry about you wanting to dessert me for heaven, I'm sure it would have totally beat changing Kurt's diapers and teaching my stubborn ass to tie my shoes.

While You're at it Remember to Mention how Hot I am

I turned 30 years old on Saturday. I have decided to write about this not only because my mind is completely devoid of creative writing ideas but also because I hope to drive up the number of comments this post receives by guilting everyone into wishing me Happy Birthday and telling me how crazy young I look (see evidence at left). I suppose one could argue that along with wrinkles and gray hairs and an affinity for mom jeans and (apparently) a complete inability to write anything even remotely humorous turning 30 should give me the gift of maturity in the form of no longer needing to validate my life via brief commentary from people I do not actually know but I think we all know that would be ridiculous.

I celebrated my birthday in a number of ways. I honored the most delicious of the 5 food groups by supping at a restaurant entirely devoted to cheese. I was assured by the Republican presidential candidates that health care in America is totally rocking and most of the uninsured people are richies who simply do not want to waste their money on insurance which made me super happy because very soon I will probably start suffering from old age related maladies (and I also noticed that McCain was very giggly having apparently spent Saturday afternoon celebrating my birth by downing 14 pre-debate gin and tonics thus cementing his place as my favorite candidate who I will not vote for because he has aligned himself with evil (and believe me there is A LOT of competition for that title)). I put on more make up then is really appropriate if you’re not starring in Cats or trying to hide a birth defect. And then I watched some girls take their clothing off.

Inviting everyone out to a burlesque show on your birthday is the best way to thank people for a year of friendship. Especially the guy friends. It is also a good way to bid your own perky boobs ado (or, hopefully, inspire them to stand proud for as long as possible). As a bonus they also serve booze at the burlesque show which everyone knows is a requirement for ringing in middle age.

The best birthday gift that the universe gave to me was the scene I witnessed while in line for the bathroom. The line was located in the basement of the bar and was roughly 72 miles long. After I spent 10 minutes focusing on anything other than the possibility that I might pee in my pants and that I was not young or old enough to justify needing a clothing change a blonde lady walked past the queue of patient would be pee-ers and up to the bathroom door while drunk people yelled at her about the concept of lines and how they work. She reached the door right as it swung open and as she propelled herself over the threshold she turned to the line and said, “I really have to pee, is it ok if I just go first?” And then, without waiting for a response shut the door. This caused quite an uproar amongst the full bladder party and when she exited the bathroom (in her defense she did her business surprisingly fast) the entire line BOOED her. This was the most awesome New York City moment EVER.

The boobie show was also pretty sweet, it was hosted by Jesus – which I thought was a little cruel, making the son spend a whole evening introducing examples of his dad’s finest work -- and the girls brought out not only naked breasts but some pretty rocking hula hoop and tassel twirling skills and one wore some glittery red lipstick that I may have to come up with an excuse to purchase (“it makes me feel young”). It occurred to me that burlesque shows are likely even better than regular strip shows since they offer the bonus hotness of girl on girl action like me slipping ones into sparkly panties, my guests really should have been more thankful.

Regrets? I have a few. There was no ice cream eaten on my birthday – this bothers me so much that I devoted at least 30 minutes of Sunday to the question of if I could extend the healthy eating amnesty period one day in order to reconcile this unfortunate oversight. I probably should have shown more cleavage. I probably should feel more comfortable defining myself as an “adult.” Also, I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have purchased a house by now.

Skating Into the Future

Because I believe that God should be given ample opportunity to strike me down before I officially enter middle age I celebrated my 29^th birthday on roller skates. God has once again allowed me to age (though he could still take me at 28 – he has until midnight tonight) as last night's festivities (despite involving alcohol) did not result in even one fall. The celebration was at the Roxy in Chelsea where everyone is still partying like it’s 1978. One assumes this is to permanently honor the year of my birth, it’s good to know that there are people out there with such a clear understanding of priorities.

Many party attendees were in fear for their life while rolling around the rink, most notably Amy, who at one point had her own security guard companion skating around with her trying to protect the Roxy from lawsuits (they were doubly protected since we all had to sign a waiver on the way in). Late in the evening one of the pro skaters decided to grab me and go very fast, at first I thought for sure I would die until I realized the freedom of no longer being responsible for my own life then I learned to enjoy watching the crowds fly by while being spun around at 30mph.

Skating is easy in comparison to trying to pee while on roller skates. Since I was appropriately dressed for the event I had to negotiate pulling my tube-top down (ideally without pulling my bra off) to get off the attached shorts, shimmy out of my nylons and underdutchies and then sit down all while trying not to let my feet escape under the door. Thank god that bathroom stalls have walls – the bathroom experience at the Roxy could be seriously improved by handles and some sort of skate lock-in device at the base of the toilet.

There are very few things more spirit lifting than watching a 45 year old man with light up roller skates busting out his far out disco moves. Who can bemoan getting older after that?