B is for Birthday
And now, for the 800th post...
Yesterday was my 27th birthday.
It was a very complex day, alternately nightmarish and intensely agreeable, the latter trend due to several people I can't live without. Mom put her image as a sane, responsible woman in jeopardy by singing the birthday song to me on her cellphone in public. Bekah and her bouncing baby boy left a lovely surprise on my doorstep. Thoughtful sister Morgan got me roses and baked two cakes because I requested frosting with nuts, which bother-in-law Kelly can't eat. One nine-inch chocolate round covered with pecan and coconut frosting wound up resembling a large, malicious version of the elk burgers she grilled. (The burgers turned out perfect.) She didn't have 27 candles, but she did have a pastel six and zero from Mom's 60th birthday this spring (oh, are we not supposed to broadcast that?), so after the singing and wishing¹, I blew out '06.' Plenty of Brendan's and a violent dogfight finished off the night, and I came home hoping the weekend- over which more festivities are planned- goes a little smoother.
¹B is for belief. Apparently the '06' was sufficient for a valid birthday wish (a rather general but certainly heartfelt invocation regarding the state of my life right now and what I hope to accomplish, attain, and avoid), because something magical happened today that seems to indicate that *insert deity of your choice here* was listening. I got a phone call from Linda this morning. She said, "I think I found you a house." I made some calls and sure enough, it appears that I may soon be getting a sweet deal as far as housing is concerned, but no details until it's chiseled in the finest Wyoming granite and signed in blood, because I am not so foolish as to jinx myself by building castles in the sky (or adorably quaint two-bedroom, century-old houses in one of my favorite parts of town).
B is also the first letter of the first name of someone who keeps me sane, and in the mail today I discovered that B. sent a sure-to-be-cherished copy of Edward Gorey's The Gashlycrumb Tinies, engrossed with a perfect inscription. B. also talked me down off a ledge (and through the door of the liquor store) after a disastrous and depressing round of phone calls to prospective landlords yesterday afternoon. Why I proceeded to undertake such a horrendous task on my birthday, I do not know, but the words of wisdom and humor it took to lift my spirits again were greatly appreciated.
B is for biker-chic. I wore a vintage "Buddy Stubb's Phoenix, Arizona Harley Davidson" t-shirt to work today (one of Grandpa's), and after a discussion with the boys about how a potential tenant should present themselves to a prospective landlord, boss Bud looked me over and said, "Don't wear that shirt when you go look at that place tonight, right?" Right.
B is for breathless, which is what I am as I sit here waiting for the phone call that will decide how many more days, weeks, possibly months I spend in what has quickly gone from a convenient and suitable basement apartment to a dank dungeon of despair.
B is also for bakery, befriend, and Buddha.
B is for babble, which is what I'll continue to do if I sit at this screen any longer.
Thanks, all.
Yesterday was my 27th birthday.
It was a very complex day, alternately nightmarish and intensely agreeable, the latter trend due to several people I can't live without. Mom put her image as a sane, responsible woman in jeopardy by singing the birthday song to me on her cellphone in public. Bekah and her bouncing baby boy left a lovely surprise on my doorstep. Thoughtful sister Morgan got me roses and baked two cakes because I requested frosting with nuts, which bother-in-law Kelly can't eat. One nine-inch chocolate round covered with pecan and coconut frosting wound up resembling a large, malicious version of the elk burgers she grilled. (The burgers turned out perfect.) She didn't have 27 candles, but she did have a pastel six and zero from Mom's 60th birthday this spring (oh, are we not supposed to broadcast that?), so after the singing and wishing¹, I blew out '06.' Plenty of Brendan's and a violent dogfight finished off the night, and I came home hoping the weekend- over which more festivities are planned- goes a little smoother.
¹B is for belief. Apparently the '06' was sufficient for a valid birthday wish (a rather general but certainly heartfelt invocation regarding the state of my life right now and what I hope to accomplish, attain, and avoid), because something magical happened today that seems to indicate that *insert deity of your choice here* was listening. I got a phone call from Linda this morning. She said, "I think I found you a house." I made some calls and sure enough, it appears that I may soon be getting a sweet deal as far as housing is concerned, but no details until it's chiseled in the finest Wyoming granite and signed in blood, because I am not so foolish as to jinx myself by building castles in the sky (or adorably quaint two-bedroom, century-old houses in one of my favorite parts of town).
B is also the first letter of the first name of someone who keeps me sane, and in the mail today I discovered that B. sent a sure-to-be-cherished copy of Edward Gorey's The Gashlycrumb Tinies, engrossed with a perfect inscription. B. also talked me down off a ledge (and through the door of the liquor store) after a disastrous and depressing round of phone calls to prospective landlords yesterday afternoon. Why I proceeded to undertake such a horrendous task on my birthday, I do not know, but the words of wisdom and humor it took to lift my spirits again were greatly appreciated.
B is for biker-chic. I wore a vintage "Buddy Stubb's Phoenix, Arizona Harley Davidson" t-shirt to work today (one of Grandpa's), and after a discussion with the boys about how a potential tenant should present themselves to a prospective landlord, boss Bud looked me over and said, "Don't wear that shirt when you go look at that place tonight, right?" Right.
B is for breathless, which is what I am as I sit here waiting for the phone call that will decide how many more days, weeks, possibly months I spend in what has quickly gone from a convenient and suitable basement apartment to a dank dungeon of despair.
B is also for bakery, befriend, and Buddha.
B is for babble, which is what I'll continue to do if I sit at this screen any longer.
Thanks, all.
posted by A at
4:23 PM
7 Comments:
Happy Birthday A!!
Good luck on the new place...
Thanks!
WV: "uhumy". Wow.
Happy Birthday! Mine's on Sunday. I'll be turning 39, which I'm still trying to get my head wrapped around. I don't feel a day over 17.
Happy Birthday to you, too! You're only as old as you feel, right?
Hey, how's that hunt for a new residence coming???
Word Verification: baytede
OMG. You would not believe, having read certain accounts on this blog, that a scarier place to live could exist. It does. The house was adorable from the outside, but the inside was a different story. Same story as a lot of the places around here: old. Crumbling. Rotting. Leaking. Fragile of plumbing and musty of air. The rent would be super low and I'd have SO much room, but the work just to make it livable... sigh. I've already done that. If I do it again, it's going to be something I'm buying.
So I'm looking at townhomes, and I'm looking at older-but-not-ancient two-bedroom homes, and I'm thinking maybe I'll hide a yurt in the State Park and just camp out until I get up enough nerve to leave this pokey little town once and for all. I'm thinking Seattle sounds nice. Or Palm Springs. Durango. The moon.
I'll keep you posted, though. Thanks for asking.
Word verification: icoap.
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