Napoleon Cake

Going out on a limb here, I'm going to guess that if we lived in an honest world, people would admit that they like other people's birthdays because of what's in it for them. I'll stand up and admit it right now. You can't see me, but I'm standing.

Take Laura's birthday party last night. We haven't hung out a lot, but I like Laura. Except that she's in better shape than me, which really gets on my nerves. But I'm glad she lived all the way through her 27th year and that she's all healthy and happy and prepared for this upcoming year. Honestly, though, I was more happy about the birthday party at San Jose's, which is visually undocumented because none of my friends brought their digital cameras to a PARTY. Ahem, anyway, I enjoyed the lime trees, the tiny swimming pool and the company more than the concept of Laura going from being 27 to 28.

Same thing at work. Sally had a birthday today and I signed her card "Happy birthday, pal. Love, Jada" when what I really meant was "I don't give a care you're getting older. Give me my cake." That's all work birthdays mean to me. Free cake. Usually chocolate, but today, strawberry. I want a Neapolitan cake, or as I used to call it, a Napoleon cake. Do they make Napoleon cakes? Napoleon cake and Napoleon ice cream would be quite the duo. I'm just sayin'.

One of the guests at the party last night, we'll call him Napoleon because he was short and mean, needed a good beating. I thought he was Australian, but really he was South African. From what I could tell, he was straight up from "H" (term coined by my mother). He told me to open my mouth when I said the word "phone." I tried to ignore him, but then I went back, in my mind, of course, to high school when choir teacher Ms. Medlin used to bust my chops for not opening them up to speak, and all I ever did was try to comply. But really, it doesn't feel good when someone tells you that you talk funny. Especially when THEY are in America using South African accents. So anyway, he got the brunt of some of the pent-up rage I had going on for Ms. Medlin. I asked him three times if he just ordered me to open my mouth when I spoke, and three times he said he hadn't. A little awkward and almost catching some attention, so I let it go. THEN he had the nerve to intrude on a conversation I was having with someone who was obviously not him, so I snapped again. This time, it was tense, and afterward he stopped making eye contact with me. I did feel bad, so when we all got up to leave, I offered a little hug and realized that he was shorter than me. Sure, I was wearing heels, but I'm 5'4". Suddenly, I understood. "Son, you should be a cop," I said to him. Not really. That part's a lie.

Despite Napoleon, a good time was had and I got to experience First Thursday for the first time. So here's to parties, free cake and birthdays (I guess...GAH).