42: The Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Including the question, “How old are you?”

Yes, today is my birthday! Another year older, another year… here. Life has been good lately: I’m thrilled about starting a new lap around the sun.

I have assembled some of Victoria’s most ruthless Mario Kart 8 Deluxe (with Booster Course Pass!) racers for a Birthday Karty. This year, I made the invitation list exclusive to those who own and play the game, plus Yann because he’s a close friend, and Burger, because he’s the Life of the Party.

Less than five minutes after I texted Burger to confirm his attendance, I received a staff email (I’m still subscribed to these despite having been laid off, but I also still have my health benefits and staff discounts). The email, sent by one of the bosses, announced this year’s Staff Christmas Party. In addition to food, one of the highlights of the event was that Burger would be there. He has truly reached that level of notoriety.

The need for exclusivity stemmed from the limited space I have for entertaining guests. 11 sweaty nerds is a lot. I should message the WhatsApp group to remind everyone to wear something breathable. While the idea of hosting a mass couch co-op for a birthday party isn’t new, I’ve made some improvements. I reused last year’s decorations and tweaked some of the concepts that didn’t turn out as expected. It’s a Birthday Karty with a Booster Course Pass.

Nintendo included a sheet of stickers with my recent order for a plush blue shell, which I purchased specifically to sabotage the reigning champion, Daniel. Here’s the back of the sticker sheet:

The front is exclusive to tomorrow evening’s attendees.

But, no. Here’s its significance:

Do they mean the game….or the sticker sheet? Who was the first to think, “Shit, I have cancer. I think I’ll blame Nintendo.”?

I plugged in the external hard drive to scratch that nostalgia itch and checked out all the blog posts I’ve written on my birthday. Below are excerpts from a few of them:

18th birthday: “As of today, I can get porno legally, I can vote, and I can also go on disability.” I also see I used to refer to White Spot restaurant as “Wet Spot”.

20th birthday: This was the day I got my first domain, lkvy.com. It was a gift from a friend who also hosted me on their server. I’ve been friends with nerds for a long time.

21st birthday: Oh, this post is horrifically whiny. I complain about my mom sending my boyfriend money to buy me flowers instead of just giving me the cash directly. Then again, I’m no longer poor in the way I was at that age. It was frustrating for my well-off parents to choose to give me flowers instead of the money I could have really used. I mean, White Spot was fine dining to me during that era..

22nd birthday: The restaurant I chose to celebrate my birthday at that year? Moxies?! And unlike White Spot, I didn’t have a comical name for it.

Danica will enjoy reading this excerpt when she finally gets through the other posts she missed: “My first surprise happened at 12:30 AM while I was taking my pre-bedtime bathroom break. Danica had written on the mirrors with a marker, wishing me a happy birthday, calling me a ‘ball-gagger,’ drawing arrows pointing to the dried-up toothpaste flecks, and adding the text, ‘Eww, I gotta wash this’ next to them.”

She’s rarely missed a birthday since. In the 20 years (WHAT) I’ve known her, it’s been as if she sets her internal clock for midnight on November 21st every year.

24th birthday: “*fishes for birthday wishes*“

That was the post.

For the next decade and a bit, I would not make a blog post on my birthday, possibly because I finally branched out from celebrating my birthday at a chain restaurant.

Today, of course, I busied myself with preparing food and ambience for tomorrow evening’s guests. The older I get, the Dutchier I get about birthdays, which is to say, less self-centered. In the Low Countries, it’s less about getting people to celebrate you and more about honouring those who tolerate you.

Even my appetizers are showing Dutch influence. Mergpijpjes—small rolls of white cake wrapped in marzipan and dipped in dark chocolate at both ends—were a staple at Oma and Opa’s birthday parties when I was growing up. This year, I am not serving that, but there will be a cake with marzipan and windmills.

My living room is too small for a Dutch-style Birthday Circle, but there will be a half-circle oriented towards the TV. I’m halfway there.

Looking around at the decorations I’ve put up, perhaps I’m just losing my mind.