The Bare Necessities

My parents, Ben and Gloria, celebrate the wonders of my tush

On Monday, I turn 45.  Oops!  Make that 54.  That means I've had the pleasure of attending many birthday parties in my honor, the majority thrown by my mother, a gal who knew how to entertain.  Sadly, most of the celebrations blur together in my aging brain.  A few that stand out:  The private screening of "Cinderella" in our living room.  I think I was five.  The trip to the Ice Capades.  I think I was eight or nine.  My sweet 16, just a table full of close friends and Mom.  And, of course, my 40th, which feels like a zillion years ago. It was the last party she gave me.  Two years later, she was gone.  But here's what I remember from that happiest of birthdays, a mind-boggling 14 years ago:

I walked into Back on Broadway in Santa Monica, hubby by my side.  I was in excellent spirits. And why shouldn’t I be? That night was all about one of my top ten favorite people. Me.  Naturally, I planned to get good and schnockered.  The first thing I saw was a poster-size, black and white photograph of the cutest butt in history, propped up on an easel.  A year old, I’m leaning against the bath tub, clutching a wash cloth, and looking shyly back at the camera, butt-naked, caught for all eternity.  A closer look revealed an undeniable fact: the shape of my tush hadn’t changed much since 1958. Still heart-shaped and ample, despite a lifetime of squats, Jane Fonda pelvic thrusts, lunges and countless other attempts at rear-end reduction. And now the friends who gathered to celebrate the wonder of me would learn just how far back this situation goes.  All the way back to the beginning.

Standing over by the easel, grinning deviously: Mom and Dad. I started to laugh, and so did hubby, then they joined in.  Clearly, I was cool with this monster tribute to my derriere.  It could've gone another way.  Had I been mortified, that poster would’ve disappeared faster than chocolate at a PMS convention.  But I turned the other cheek, so to speak.  All night long, comments ranged from “Nice ass” to “That ass hasn’t changed” to a Jimi Hendrix-styled riff of “’Cuse me while I kiss your ass.” Considering the alternative -- a full-frontal view -- I probably got off easy.  A wonderful night, full of food and wine, birthday cake and dancing.  As for the poster?  It's still in my closet, planning its big Hollywood comeback. Not in this lifetime, baby.