I’m tired and I’m thinking (and I’m having the gift of the month, thank youuuu Mother Nature who apparently wears yellow and has curly hair according to the commercials). Thinking while tired is usually not permitted, it’s like…thinking while drinking, or thinking while trying to fly a plane that is suddenly crashing to the ground, or…something in the middle of those two disastrous events.
I’ve had a strange birthday. Strange in the mind opening and electrifying way birthday’s should actually be. It’s another year that you’ve been given, right? And it makes you sit back and think about the last year, and how you can top it with this one? Well good luck, I should be saying to myself – last year I graduated college and moved to Australia, not too sure I’m going to be able to top that one. Now, I am jobless, living at home in my seven-year-olds-dream-pink bedroom, and my version of entertainment is watching the neighborhood kids play street hockey at 7pm through my creepy, yet perfect viewing platform – my North window. There’s also a birds nest outside of this window that my cat likes to stare at, so sometimes he sits on the stool with me and paws at the window. It’s like we’re both trying to escape.
I cried on my birthday. Don’t worry this isn’t the first year. When I turned twenty-one I cried too, that birthday was MUCH worse than this one though. I cried during this one because I realized how busy my friends are, and how I love people who are far away, and how I spend every birthday with my parents eating Carvel cake shaped like a football, and how my life isn’t adequately measuring up to how I thought it would at 23. Anne Frank wrote a witty and telling diary before she even primed in her teenage years. James Dean made the leather jacket and cigarette fashionable well before age 23. Hellen-Keller published her biography at age 22. I mean … I should get a move on if I want to do something extraordinary with my life. I really don’t want to be seventy and finally have a book on the Best Seller List while I’m in the nursing home holding hands with my football-loving husband who still farts exceptionally smelly ones in the morning. Wait, yes I do.
On the day I turned 23, aka, 25 minutes ago. I woke up and was actually unbelievably happy compared to how I’ve felt recently about my life dwindling away to nothing. My dad told me some really interesting stories about his younger years; his girlfriend and the wallet-under-the-bed-caught-by-parents incident, his best friend’s and their italian-mafia last names, with their chauffeurs, when he ran away and where he moved. He even told me about a certain Dear John letter. I’m obsessed with old stories, from old people. Thus, why I minored in history and why I love to read biographies. And I also love reading my dad’s old yearbooks where countless women talk about “sitting on his windowsill in the evenings and talking.” I bet there was a WHOLE lot of talking, goin’ on. (My father still carries a picture in his wallet of when he was in his twenties so he can show people how good lookin’ he used to be. He’s a stud). So, anytime I get these genuine anecdotes from my dad, the day is usually successful.
We watched a bit of Price is Right and I showered and tried to find an outfit fitting for potty training, but still looking like the fashionable young lady I like to conduct myself as. Basically, I put on a white t-shirt and some jeggings and found some stellar, straight-out-of-mom’s-closet Spice Girl Boots. Did I mention I also wore pink leg-warmers and a flower jacket? Because that happened. Have to be spunky, even when there’s a chance of pee getting near you. I babysat the nephew, who I mostly just enjoyed reading The Lorax too. I am slowly but surely taking part in raising a Tree-Hugging Liberal. We both BLEH BLEH BLEHED at the part where the Onceler is creating all that smog and muck with all his thneed making. Damn that Onceler.
I enjoy him, my nephew I mean. Albeit he makes me never want to, ever, ever, ever birth any children, I love the kid to death. And he loves jelly beans and receiving them even after the tiniest, most minuscule pee.
I may or may not have spent the entire drive to and from my brother’s house listening to “One, two, three, something something with me” by Britney Spears. It’s just so damn catchy. And you can bob your head so well and yell it out the crack of your window into on-coming traffic. People need a little “It’s Britney Bitch” in their life ever-so-often. Me, more than most.
Then, I came home, became a Bitter Buffalo, and laid on my bed … the wrong way. In order to explain this accurately….I’ll need to…explain it with full description. I came in my room, belly-flopped onto my perfectly made bed (just the way my father doesn’t yell at me for) and let my feet hang off. I was laying the wrong way, like..across the bed, instead of .. on the bed, and so my feet and head hung off. My head was laying on my pile of clothes-to-be-put-away-clothes and I was letting my hair mask the crying. I was crying because none of my friends are missing lives. They all have lives. They all have jobs where they actually work, ya know, doing something with their lives and I’m just ya know, not. So, I have a lot of time on my hands, to .. ya know, cry. I yelled at my mom, in a way that only a Bitter Buffalo can about how I have no friends, blah blah blah, and can’t possibly bear my life situation like this, blah blah blah, and I’m miserable and want to lay in a dark room, under my covers and make this day end, blah blah blah. When I became sixteen again, I have no idea.
Then my humble, and wonderful love pointed out that like 289347 people wrote Happy Birthday on my facebook wall. Oh facebook, always pointing out the truth in our lives. And my great friend Melis sent me gorgeous flowers with a cute little note from herself and her baby bump. And I went to Target and bought a Valentine’s Day Card for my one true love (because I love him) and bought a Thank You card for a great friend (and her bump). And then I perked up after having fifteen minutes of CALK time and thirty minutes of sulking in my own misery time and let friend take me to ice cream at Cold Stone. Note to those reading, the Cheesecake Ice Cream is bitter and not so wonderful, and REALLY tastes nasty with Coffee Starbucks drink.
Then I watched Easy A, again…for the third time because I truly believe that one, Hester Prinn and I are one in the same and two, Olive Pendergrass and I are one in the same. It always makes me feel witty and brainy, and excellent (especially for knowing that Syliva commited suicide by sticking her head in the oven, SEE CREATIVE WRITING JOKES NUMERO UNO). If you weren’t a creative writing major, you probably wouldn’t have known this, and therefore didn’t get a funny joke, in a witty movie. Sucks for the science majors out there, keep looking at your specimen’s folks. It’s a rare chance I get a dig at science or engineering people, so I’m taking full advantage.
I think this day can be summed up in just a few life lessons.
1. Let your parents tell you their high school stories/read their yearbooks. It will be hilarious, heart-warming, and too much information.
2. Crying on your birthday can be explained away by a period, to most of the male population.
3. Best friends text you lyrics to a song, while you’re listening to that song on the radio. This is called the link, and Jess and I share it constantly.
4. I’m obsessed with Thank-You cards, both giving and receiving.
5. Married friends, don’t die off after they get married, they just become different and yet still wonderful. And then they get baby bumps, and you want to touch their stomach all the time, and you never feel weird about it, but they might.
6. Everyone knows someone witty, if you don’t know someone witty, then you are the witty person. YES FOR WITTY PEOPLE.
7. Justin Bieber has a movie about his life coming out in 3D, I have already stolen some glasses for the premier.
8. Pajamas and sweat pants CAN successfully be worn to get ice cream.
9. Birthday’s are more happy, less cry-ee, on even numbers.
10. Giving jelly bellies to a potty-training boy is probably your best bet at not getting peed on and/or not having any “Jackidents.” My nephews name is Jack, in case you needed that clarification.
11. “Firework” by Katy Perry is growing on me, and even though I’m the last to find out, the new station in Raleigh that’s the bomb is 102.5.
12. I will post this on facebook and probably no one I know will comment. However, I will look at my site stats and see that majority of my facebook friends have clicked the link, and feel like I’ve accomplished something. Therefore, you closet blog readers, I see you.
“I see closet blog readers,” in my best “I see dead people” voice.
Happy Birthday to everyone, celebrate your mothers and the annoying way that they barge into your room wanting to know why you’re acting sixteen and not twenty-three, celebrate your time in the womb when you were blind to every sense and celebrate your lives because you’re one day closer to the Big Bang when you’re sleeping at night.
(That was meant in a totally hopeful way).