Time to make a wish

A year ago today I started work at my current gig in Los Angeles. I was 5 pounds lighter (okay, I think more like 10 but let’s not focus on that) and I waltzed into work that morning after having successfully parallel parked in the street (a big deal for moi), ready to take on a new challenge.

I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday that day. Asian Equation did her calculating acrobatics and I met a collage of new people and could hardly remember any names. But the kicker came in the afternoon when out came a giant chocolate cake from the depths of the office kitchen. I squirmed. Did they know it was my birthday? How did they know that chocolate was my favorite? I ducked my head down at my desk, acted as though I didn’t see that big delicious chocolate creation parading my way.

Then Asian Equation said it was time to sing Chrissy Happy Birthday. Chrissy!? My co-worker and instant soul sista (yes, “sista,” sans the “er” at the end).

And that is the day that I found out I was not the only one born on July 9. Hmph. I’ll ignore it.

I’ll also ignore my brother’s myspace bulletin stating that I [Fernando] was born in a Wyoming cave.

Work is bringing in cupcakes from some la-dee-daa expensive bakery from Beverly Hills (that's what they do in Los Angeles). To celebrate my birth, friends and I are going to a hole-in-the-wall Italian joint in Westwood. It’s a great place, I discovered it on a date. The date was so-so but the food was fabulous so at least I got that much. There are barely enough tables in the place to hold 20 people and the waiters speak with such an authentic Italian accent, they must actually be Italian or just the really good kind of actor.

There will be chianti! There will be vodka sauce! There will be a candle! And a wish!