A Happy Birthday, to Two of the Best

On this day, March 25, my father and grandmother share a birthday. Dad is 53; Grandma is 91.

(I can't allow the above sentence stand alone without adding that not only is Grandma 91-- she lives and functions totally on her own, as she has been for the past 25 years. Her secret? I'm convinced it has something to do with daily crossword puzzles and Smart Balance cheese slices, and can only hope that I'll be blessed with a life that's just as long and healthy.)

As a child, I just couldn't fathom the concept of having to share a birthday with a parent or sibling. To my understanding, a birthday was essentially a free pass for all eyes to be on you and you alone-- a day that should be milked for all its worth in terms of presents, toys, sweets, hugs, kisses, etc. In comparison to such an intensely special All-About-Me Day, who could ever settle for All-About-Us?

Of course, I didn't quite take hold of the fact that my father had no say in the matter regarding what day he should be born on. For him, sharing his birthday with my grandmother was simply the way things were, a day that wasn't any less special. And for her, of course, my father was the ultimate birthday gift. I, for one, cannot imagine the physical act of giving birth on one's birthday, but not everyone can exchange candles and cake for a hospital room like my grandmother did.

It's hard to articulate in words what two of the most important people in my life mean to me without getting too sappy. My thoughts almost instantly turn to childhood. You can tell a grandmother loves you when she's willing to knit clothes for your stuffed animals, including a full winter outfit for Hoppy the rabbit: sweater, hat, scarf, and legwarmers (only the scarf remains). And somehow, my father made group trips to the library with my brothers just as fun as getting a push from him on the tire swing at Neck Road Park. Who knows where this blogger would be if that love of literature hadn't been cultivated so early with Spot the Dog books?

It's impossible to tell, but one thing's for sure: without them, there'd be no me.

Happy birthday, Dad & Grandma.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

La fella what? The tongue twister of a title above is actually Irish for "Saint Patrick's Day." I won't even attempt to pronounce it; the little bit of Gaelic I picked up on in Dr. Murphy's Irish Lit class at Villanova seemed to have gone out the window. Sorry, Murph.

The last time I formally wrote about St. Paddy's was two years ago for The Villanovan (accessible at http://www.villanovan.com/2.7324/black-an-official-day-to-be-irish-1.1021001), when I was just a month away from turning 21. By that point in the year a substantial portion of my fellow juniors had already experienced that sacred rite of passage. While they giddily ran off to the Main Line bars, I had to contain my festivities to West Campus-- which turned out to be a blast anyway, thanks to a last-minute karaoke party in my apartment. But, oh, how frustrating it was to be a college student so close to the promised land of legality, yet so far.

And so, last year, at the ripe age of 21-almost-22, I finally spent St. Patrick's Day at a bar. Or rather, several bars. That long Tuesday night began at Brownies, an Ardmore establishment usually frequented by the Villanova crowd on Wendesday and Friday nights-- which explains why my friends and I turned out to be the only college students who showed up. The look of horror on our faces upon entercountering cougars in too-tight jeans and beer-bellied men wearing shirts that read "Kiss Me" was too much to handle. We concluded that Brownies' marketing strategy for their St. Paddy's party had been a total failure to the college crowd (but a whopping success to anyone over 40), leaving after a mere hour. On the flip side, we walked out with free mugs and Jack Daniels hats, and free stuff, no matter how kitschy it may be, always makes everything better.

We ended up back at our usual evening hangout, Erin Pub. It was wildly, almost unbelievably crowded, so packed that you had to wriggle like an earthworm through the hordes of bodies to get within visual distance of the bartenders-- but the euphoric atmosphere completely made up for it. Dropkick Murphys music blared on the speakers; friends posed for photo opps; glasses were clinked left and right. The mood was so festive that it was as if the entire senior class (or at least its most fun/interesting members) had just experienced a Friday, snow day, and Christmas all at once. St. Paddy's exemplified just what Erin's was: good people, good prices, good nights.

Part of what I'll miss about Villanova is how enjoyable St. Patrick's Day was each and every year I was there. Granted, it was all about copious alcohol consumption, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be right now as I sit at my cubicle typing this. Throughout my years in the NYC public school system, us Irish kids were few and far between, more commonly found attending Catholic schools (my middle and high schools were both primarily populated with Asian and Jewish students). While I ultimately embraced my minority status as something special, it was refreshing to spend my college years at a place where St. Paddy's was celebrated to the fullest.

Tonight in New York City (can't complain that I happen to live in one of the nation's most historically Irish hubs), I'll be raising my glass to those Main Line shenanigans of the past. And hopefully, maybe a trip to the Emerald Isle in the not-too-distant future.

Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.