you say it's your birthday

Oh wait, that’s me. It’s MY birthday.

I usually drag the celebration out to a week or more, but this year I’ve only managed a couple of days. Saturday I had a birthday princess pajama slumber party complete with a tiara shaped cake, a dozen women in my 700 square foot house, and a drink menu that included champagne, cherry champagne cocktails, lemon drop martinis, and more wine than you can shake a princess wand at.

As you’re no doubt imagining, it pretty much looked like a cross between

This. The one in the middle is clearly me - she even has my hair.

And this.

I made these fantastic women, who had already left the house in pajamas just because I asked them to, play a series of goofy games.

  • Everyone had to pick a PJ name – kind of like a derby name but specific to the slumber party. There were some killers, including Rosey Glow, Pepper, Katie Kakes, and Suga’ Moma. I quite literally withheld drinks until names were chosen – because that’s the kind of hostess I am.
  • I passed around a notebook and a pen and made everyone write either the best thing about their 29th year or what their plan for 29 is, depending on their stage of life. Most memorably, my friends who are less than 29 are apparently going to cure cancer and AIDS in their 29th years – keep an eye out for that, it’s gonna be huge.
  • When I opened my gifts, I told the most embarrassing story I could think of about each person.
  • I made everyone tell their best Emma story. Not a single person reciprocated with an embarrassing story about me, even though one of the stories I’d told involved a roomful of teenage girls sitting around rubbing their eyelids because one my girlfriends-who-shall-remain-nameless told us that’s what a penis felt like.

In summary, the women in my life are fan-fucking-tastic and I am something of a brat when I throw a party.

29 is going to be a very good year.

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