By then, according to the video taken by my cousin Louise, who wasn’t taping my performance so much as recording the whole event for a paper she was doing on community gatherings, the hotel had turned on the piped-in hotel Muzak that was, I think, a loose rendition of the Beatles song “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

Mostly what I remember hearing was the telltale whooshing in my ears. The pounding of my heart in my chest, which my brain translated to the opening chords of “Mama Mia” by ABBA from the album ABBA, released in 1975, not to be confused with ABBA: The Album, which came out two years later in 1977.

(I know, right? Was it that they just really liked their name or was it that there were four people in the group and they couldn’t agree on an album title so someone, maybe Björn, was like, “Fine we’ll just call this one ABBA, too!”)

(Yes, my cat is named after the lead singer of ABBA. Surprised?)

Many of the desserts at my grandma’s birthday were things guests had made, which they had placed on a set of foldout tables at the back of the conference room. The tables were covered in plastic tablecloths and liberally sprinkled with colored confetti. Not exactly classy, but who says an older person’s birthday has to be classy?

Herbert’s grandmom, my great-grandmom, was a very interesting lady.

She was the one who bought Lucy her first disco record, the Jacksons’ self-titled 1978 album The Jacksons. Which is why I knew she would love my performance.

For this birthday, Herbert bought her decorative soaps, just FYI. Who buys someone soap as a pre sent?

(Herbert. Consistently.)

Okay, so back to the story: So on these tables there were two trays of Rice Krispies Treats, two platters of Jell-O squares, two dozen chocolate-chip cookies, and three cakes, all because everyone ignored Lucy’s organizing email with a chart of desserts and just did their own thing. Which is also standard on that side of the family.

Two of the three cakes were store-bought. Which, obviously, I have no judgment on that. Not everyone has time to make a cake (and I don’t know how to bake).

The thing about store-bought cakes is they are mostly icing. Like at least an inch, as anyone who has ever pushed her finger into the icing on one of these cakes or dared to try to eat a mostly icing corner piece will tell you. I don’t know if that went into my decision, standing in front of that table. I was only standing there a minute. Maybe I picked the big-ass white cake because it was one of the desserts at the front of the table and I could barely reach because I was, as I said, seven.