Deborah’s Birthday
August 14, 2006
On Friday, Deborah and I went to dinner at the restaurant down the street.
"It's my birthday on Monday!" Deborah said to the waitress as the waitress handed us menus.
The waitress looked at us both, trying to figure out what we expected her to do about it. We didn't expect her to do anything. Deborah was simply excited that it was Friday, and that she had a three-day birthday weekend ahead of her.
"My birthday celebration starts right now!"
She'd made plans for a manicure/pedicure in Park Slope with a girlfriend of hers, but the friend cancelled.
"So?" I asked, "What are you gonna do, instead?"
"I'm gonna get my nails done," she said.
So I gave her a ride to the manicurist and killed time until she was done. But when she was done, she didn't want to risk messing up her brand-new pedicure by putting her motorcycle boots on right away, so we walked around for a while and tried to come up with a plan for the rest of the day.
"It's your birthday weekend," I said, "So whatever you want to do is fine with me."
"How about the Botanical Garden? It's close."
It was a beautiful Saturday, so the Garden was crowded. Lots of families were milling around, smelling things, and several old ladies were camped out with easels, painting watercolor scenes, while lots of old men were taking photos. Actually, there were all kinds of people with cameras, but the old guys I mentioned were decked out in full war photographer gear: khaki vests with bulging pockets; two or three cameras with thermos-sized lenses dangling around their necks; tripods strapped to their backpacks.
“Oh yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering that the Corpse Flower was blooming. "That big stinky plant is flowering. Let's find it."
The closer we got to the building with the Corpse Flower, the thicker the crowd became, until finally we saw a line of people waiting to see it. "The line doesn't look too bad," I said, but quickly realized that what I thought was the end of the line was only a break, and it actually continued around another building. "Oh well. What can you do?"
The line moved quickly, and soon we were inside. "It doesn't smell at all," I said, disappointed. Apparently, it only stinks for a short amount of time, and then the smell fades away to nothing. We missed the prime time smell-a-thon. "They should tell you that before you wait half an hour to get in," I said.
"If you wanna experience the smell," I heard one of the old photographers say, "just ride a garbage truck to a dump in the Bronx."
Not sure why the dump has to be in the Bronx, but either way, I'm not likely to do it.
"Oh well, now what?"
We meandered through the gardens for a bit, then got on the bike and headed for Manhattan.
Although it wasn't the most direct route to Agent Provocateur in SoHo, where we planned to buy Deborah a birthday present, I took the Brooklyn Bridge because it's such a cool bridge and has a fantastic view. Unfortunately, it was also jam-packed with bumper-to-bumper traffic.
"Oh well," I called back to Deborah, "better than last weekend, anyway. At least we're outside."
The previous weekend, we got caught in traffic in the middle of the Lincoln Tunnel and stalled out. Stalling out on a kick-start bike with a passenger on board in the middle of the tunnel is—umm—stressful. Sitting on the bridge with a cool breeze and an unparalleled view of Manhattan beats sweating in dark 100-degree heat, breathing exhaust fumes, trying to kick over the bike while Deborah stands to the side, trying to ignore all the pissed off drivers. "Hello. How are you? Nice to see you. Have a nice day—"
The perfume Deborah tested on our last visit to Agent Provocateur didn't smell as nice as she remembered, so we left the store empty-handed. So now, instead of the perfume, Deborah wants a vice for her workbench. Maybe I can find a frilly one.
Today is Deborah's actual birthday. Happy Birthday, Deborah. I love you.
