though exhausted by the output

The crescendo of the evening, and perhaps the week, was being surrounded by two waiters, a soprano, two tenors, and I think the owner, who all sang me happy birthday as I winced. The funny thing about it though, was this: even as I winced, I didn't feel truly embarrassed. Yes, I wouldn't have asked for the attention of the entire restaurant, but I was surprised that I didn't want to hide under the dinner table when they surrounded me. My face was red, but not as red as it usually gets. It almost felt good to be sung to -- and that is a strange feeling for an introvert (yes, the Montepulciano helped.) Mostly it just felt good because I know the moment pleased my mom so much -- I know she was listening to that soprano warbling (...to you!!...) and she was filled with pride for having orchestrated such a perfect evening in this perfect italian restaurant.

It is very important to my mom that things go well on birthdays. She was thrilled on her own birthday -- front row tickets to Jersey Boys -- woot! -- but it was more important to her that my own birthday be special. We went to a little gem of a place in Woodside, in the middle of nowhere, really -- but somewhere that I could somehow feel justified in saying: I'm from here! Even though it's not quite across the street from where I grew up. And they had music, and we were given free champagne, and it was really, really perfect.

Anyhow: the singing. My mom mentioned to the waiter threee times that it was my birthday, and just before she got up to use the restroom, she asked me in her tipsy way, "do you think he got the hint? do you think he'll do anything for you?" I told her: yes. Stop worrying.

Still, as she walked to the bathroom, I saw her take the waiter aside and whisper something to him. Great to be subtle, mom. I made eye contact with him and shook my head, pleading: No, no, no -- don't sing me happy birthday. But he said he must: she asked him and it was very important to her. He added that he had it all planned: she didn't have to be so direct (not his words.) He was a good waiter, he wanted to say. He knew the things he was to do for birthdays.

Of course I had to let them sing to me: this was my birthday, but, really -- this was all for my mom. We left the restaurant and she was on a high -- we had talked with the owners, been shown a photo album of the island where he was from by his cousin, been sung to -- it all came together perfectly.

Even the sting of being charged an exorbitant amount for ordering the special entree (Ok, I knew it was Filet Mignon, but I didn't realize truffles were THAT expensive. Eek!) didn't ruin the evening.

What did linger with me was this: my mom is blind (not literally), so I always fill out her credit card slips for her. This night was no exception, except for one: I used wine math. Wine math means leaving a ten percent tip when you mean to leave twenty. WINE MATH IS BAD.

Thank goodness, thank goodness my mother double-checked my wine math -- even though this embarrassed me because she did it while we were talking to the cousin of the owner when she did -- and my mistake was caught before we left. I am still humiliated by this mistake -- have I done this before and not known it? That night I left behind a very messy credit card slip. Drunkards.

It was a fitting end to a good week. I had a birthday. I attended a reception at the New York Times at which I spoke with a Board member for over half an hour -- certainly a record for me, actually conversating with an imposing figure and holding my own (I am growing up). We hosted lovely people at our lovely home. And I think I just generally inched toward that milestone where I feel comfortable in my own skin. A good week!