The birthday celebrations started at the stroke of midnight.
The blackforest cake was carried out, the seven candles lit, the lights dimmed, the birthday song sung.
I huffed and puffed and blew the candles out and made a symbolic first cut. And the cake was promptly returned to the fridge. The perfunctory cake-cutting ceremony was simply to allow the early birds in my family -- ie. everyone but me -- to have it for breakfast at 7am.
I had half of my share of cake at 10am, to save my stomach for lunch at 11.45am. I have no idea what happened to the other half, it just disappeared.
As the privileged birthday girl, I gave myself the day off and forced M and M -- how confusing, the same initials! -- to partake of steamboat at Shinobi at PSA Building, where we had the best century egg dish in the world (Yes, I'm prone to superlatives). The mentaiko grilled prawns were pretty awesome too. I may have licked the sauce off the leaf that was used to garnish the dish.
We headed home to digest the food and rest for a bit before the next scheduled birthday event -- Sentosa with doggie and Ollie.
It was a wash-out. Five minutes after we arrived, it started to drizzle in earnest (If you look carefully, you will see a woman with umbrella by the water's edge). Not that it really made a difference, doggie was determined not to get wet above his legs and just obstinately stood there in the shallow waters. I could only watch longingly as a tiny terrier paddled away merrily. Ollie, too, was not a fan of the beach, especially the sand.
As we chilled at KM8 with mocktails and chicken wings, I recalled that one of the Ms and I were here four years ago exactly, sans kid and dog, who both did not exist yet at that time.
Rushing home, I cleaned the dog (of sand), cleaned the car (of sand, too) and then cleaned myself (more sand), just in time for dinner at Timbre with M and her friends, which she assured me wasn't a set-up. I gullibly believed her.
But it wasn't that bad. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. The fact that I was oblivious to who she was setting me up with probably played a big part.
I had a little too much Heineken and some strange ducky pizza, spoke to a Chinaman who enunciated his English words better than me, tried to guess the age of a 31-year-old with a 26-year-old face, discovered a chic chick had bought one of my dresses, discussed the impossibility of a platonic "I had a great time last night" text message and met two rabid Mayday fans who were also planning to go to Taipei, one of whom even spontaneously belted out 志明與春嬌.
(Birthday balloon from McDonald's, from a party my sis attended the night before.)
The whole of the next day, Saturday, was spent in anticipation of Girls' Night Out, a rarity since out of the six girls, three were in fact mothers. And five of them were either married, newly married or soon to be married. Which kinda makes Girls' Night Out a logistics nightmare.
(There is actual photo documentation of that night of hard partying, but this is the only photo that will ever see the light of day, because one of the girls is paranoid about unflattering photos of her being splashed all over the national papers should she be tragically killed in a terrorist attack, while another wants to maintain a mysterious image to intimidate her subordinates but they would never take her seriously if photos of our drunken debauchery ever surfaced.)
Since I have a history of amnesia after drinking, here's what little I remember:
No. of people in the car: Seven (five in the back with the time-tested in-out-in-out-in formation, one in the front, and one chauffeur)
No. of pubs crawled to: Four (Overeasy, One On The Bund, Bellini Grande and Zouk, which I last visited when I was in my 20s, I swear)
No. of drinks: Eleven and one-third (Three Sex On The Beach, two Ginger Cosmopolitans, one Bellini, two Apple Shooters, two Cowboy something, one Tequila Shot and one Flaming Lamborghini shared by three birthday gals. This list is courtesy of
Foxxxy Mama, because I also lose all ability to count after three drinks)
Best line of the night: "How come this chop cannot?" (Uttered by M, who morphed into an Ah Lian when sloshed, after we were denied entry to Phuture despite having a "chop")
Second-best line of the night: "My ex-boyfriend was a trishaw rider." (True confession by C, not a trashy headline from a female magazine, which I made a mental "note to self" with supreme effort)
No. of smelly farts: Two (both on the dancefloor, probably by the same boy, since they smelled exactly of the same kind of bad)
No. of fart/poop anecdotes exchanged: Countless
Total hours: Seven (from 8.30pm till 3.30am)
No. of hangovers: Two
Hangover-free the next morning -- I never have hangovers. I have also never vomited, even during my party heyday. It is probably the greatest accomplishment of my life -- I was even the earliest one at a birthday brunch with fellow January baby R and the gang at Colbar.
So-so bacon and eggs, not-bad fried beehoon, retro laid-back atmosphere and lots of goss about shotgun weddings, one-sided break-ups and the cover-up of the murder of an azalea plant.
After a much-needed nap, it was off for a field trip with K, her RB and X (by the way, I think it's way cool to have X as an initial) to the last kampung in Singapore, Kampung Buangkok, where I made the deadly mistake of wearing shorts.
But the itchiness of being eaten alive by mozzies did add authenticity to the entire trip down memory lane, even if the entire compound had the feel of a desserted 1970s film set.
In the spirit of nostalgia, I decided to shoot film, a stressful yet liberating experience. Stressful because I had to focus, adjust shutter speed and aperture manually and only 36 shots to do it. Liberating because there was no
chimping involved.
Thankfully, my karma levels had miraculously spiked and my photos were not a complete disaster. Well, not all of them anyway. So I'm well pleased.
The evening ended with a prata dinner washed down with Milo Dinosaur, followed by much squealing over Gigi the Guatemalan Giraffe, and one final birthday present of a taxi ride to my doorstep.
I must say, in spite of the self-indulgent birthday weekend festivities during which all work came to a standstill (I piah-ed and met my two deadlines the day before), I'm not really much into celebrating the day I was born. It's celebrating the friendships built up over the (many many, too many) years which makes it meaningful. Mushy but true.
I had a ball. Thank you, for all the cake, presents and love. Okay, you may go and vomit now.
