This summer, my best friend said, “Hey, we should celebrate our 50th birthdays together!” and I was like, What are you talking about? That’s not for another thirteen years, right? Turns out, it’s now. Somehow, it’s now.
My official birthday is Wednesday, but the partay was last night — and it was a howling success. Small but mighty, glittery and goldy enough to light up the whole neighborhood. The champagne was flowing, and there was lots (and I mean lots) of singing and dancing to funk, Michael Jackson, Wham, and Nirvana. My friends went all out with their outfits — full bling commitment. Here is the best picture:
I couldn’t find as much gold stuff as I thought I had in the costume box, so I had to get creative: I put on all my grandmothers’ rings for the bling, found some gold spray paint in the garage, sprayed a bunch of bay leaves, and stuck them in my hair. Other friends did the same. One of my friends showed up in this fabulous, rubbery golden shirt that might actually have been made from the sun (we were careful to keep all flames at a distance, because we figured he wouldn’t want the thing permanently molded onto his torso). I wrapped myself in golden lights, and my boyfriend wore a short gold bobbed wig and a strange netted lamé mermaid dress thing that was… perfection.
We were a small committee, but we glimmered. We danced until about 3 a.m. When the golden hair fronds started getting a little heavy, I realized how tangled my hair had gotten in the lights and fronds I’d wound through my braids. It took my friend Lea a solid five minutes to set me free from my goldness.
There is now an unexplainable sticky patch on the floor near where the food and beer were — a mystery I’ll be solving today, mop in hand, Advil nearby. Socks, ever the chill party dude, stayed in the garage working on his salmon-oil toy project with full focus and satisfaction.
As the guests drifted home, my boyfriend and I turned off the lights and kept dancing. The ghostly white blur of Socks floating through the dark made it feel like we were dancing with a little spirit. Did I ever tell you he truly does glow in the dark?
And now, today’s excitement: the Packy Pony.
Here’s a quote from another newsletter where I explain:
Oh—you don’t know what a Pack-y-Pony is? Where have you been? My French sons were, for a while, deep into an online game featuring “pack-y-ponies.” It took me months to realize it was “pack opening” (English, pronounced à la française)—basically an unboxing of treasures or rare items.
Socks’ new toy, Turkey Jake, from his beloved friend Sheri, has arrived. You’ll see in the full video below that I’m struggling to open the box one-handed while Socks’ nose is already inside, so sorry for the shuffling. He’s been carrying Jake everywhere since, and I’ve been asking him every few minutes, “Where’s Jake?” and praising him inordinately. Notice the soft, soulful look in Jake’s eyes — true love in plush form, and with a chewy rubber neck. But wait. Is Jake a turkey?
