LA's Kickass Diary Page

Not young, not thin, definitely not sexy and beautiful anymore, but dammit I'm still smart!

You paid attention during 100% of high school!

85-100% You must be an autodidact, because American high schools don't get scores that high! Good show, old chap!

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So there you go, I was right back in the day when I chose scholastic excellence over perfecting my looks and shooting for a big time modeling career. I said it then and it's true today… "Pretty goes away; smart never does."

Yeah, I'm still gnarring about my birthday and it isn't even officially my birthday until tomorrow. I had really high hopes for my birthday this year. Because it's cursed, you know. Really! My birthdays have sucked since ever.

My 7th birthday when my Da stood up from the table, announced he was leaving and wanted a divorce, that was a good 'un, eh?

My 11th birthday when I decided to outfox the weather gods who'd snowed out the last three years' parties and I planned for a damn sledding party…it rained that year.

My 13th birthday when all I wanted was a new pair of ice skates. I dislocated my knee New Year's week and spent the next 18 months in casts, double surgeries and rehab. Never did use those skates, I'd outgrown them by the time I could use them.

My 16th birthday which I begged, pleaded and wept for weeks beforehand until granted permission to go to the city with my boyfriend for dinner at Windows on the World at the top of the Trade Center followed by my very first Broadway show…that was the Blizzard of 1979. The entire eastern seaboard was paralyzed until February. I never did see a Broadway show until I was in my 30s and we all know what happened to the World Trade Center.

My 18th birthday was spent packing to leave home. Didn't take very long, I was only allowed to take what I could fit in my backpack.

Mike completely forgot my 19th and 20th birthdays. Or blew them off, which amounts to the same thing.

I worked on my 21st birthday. Racing to pick up my order in the kitchen of the café I slid on the greasy floor, flailed for balance and seared most of the skin off my right hand which had slapped down on the griddle.

My 22nd birthday I was recovering from giving birth. Alex had been born 5 days previous and from then on his birthday had precedence. His parties. His presents. My birthday disappeared. I didn't even get a cake of my own again until 2 years ago when I bought it myself because I was thoroughly sick of blowing out a candle stuck in a chunk of Alex's leftover birthday cake.

This year I was certain the curse would be broken! Mick promised I'd have a fantastic time. He was making me a party! Me! I was going to have a real party with music and fun and friends and booze. Mick, who loves me so very, very much would make it happen. He'd be driver, minder and guide for me and my best pals to go out dancing. Right. Mo flaked out. GBW is flat in bed with the flu. Steph is puking and barely able to suck down some tea. The band I wanted to see is playing this afternoon, not tonight. Tonight the pub is hosting some big football blow-out instead of having music. 9 screens of NFL and all the wings you can eat. My idea of Heaven. NOT! I got my period last night.