In short: I don't think birthdays are a big deal. Who has time for that? I grew up in a household with seven other children, we thought birthday parties were only allowed for the first six years of your life and after that, SOL. You try throwing eight parties a year then doing it all over again. And so, I'm a cheap date. Give me pizza, good beer, and The Bodyguard on Blu-Ray. Preferably without my roommate's self-led sing-a-long, but such are the hazards of living with a product of the 80's.
Not all of your friends will buy into this un-birthday routine, but to that I say you can't go wrong in asking for what you want. You can trust me, I work next door to a tenured Communications professor. One whose anxious advisees came looking for him and found a locked office, so I tracked the guy down to discover that his appointments were being held elsewhere. Apparently he'd told everyone that. I said I'd relay the message, and did he want me to include a caveat about how your advisor the Doctor of Communication Studies says to tell you that you got it wrong? Does nobody catch the irony here...
Anyway. When your friends ask what you'd like to do for your birthday, the most annoying response one could give is the cryptic ANYTHING IS FINE. Because we all know anything is not fine. Another thing that is not fine? Expecting them to read your mind. Ask my former boss how that worked out for him when he solicited my help on something (yes, that's what he called it) and when I looked him in the eye and said "What do you need from me?", he replied, and I quote: I DON'T HAVE TIME TO GO INTO THAT! IF YOU COULD JUST READ MY MIND ON THIS, THAT WOULD BE GREAT.
Don't be that guy.
Don't be that guy.
I told my friends I wanted to spend my birthday in good conversation with good people. We planned an evening out at a new pub in town. Nice and unassuming.
The week leading up to it wasn't exactly easy. Easy is heating up last night's leftovers or 'dealing with' clingy people by claiming to have dropped your phone in the toilet. I'd had difficult conversations and made difficult decisions, then had what we'll call a mild run-in with someone who has mastered the art of (intentionally) toggling between my good graces and my shit list. The thought of fielding attention on a day I didn't consider worth the hype, exhausted me. Come 1130pm, I was sitting on my front porch, having convinced myself that as long as I didn't go to sleep, the day wouldn't arrive. And yes, these reasoning skills have gotten me far in life. All the way to 26, in fact.
To add insult to injury, the previous two birthdays were both preceded by untimely break-ups, prompting the day to be more about drowning my sorrows than celebrating another year. The Stillar girls mark such dismal occasions with the comprehensive "Break-Up Kit", complete with lots of sugar and alcohol and presented with just enough fanfare to remind you of what a total and pathetic wreck you are. But good news, one day your prince will come.
(Why tempt fate? Leave it to me to make it three times the charm when I don't even have anyone to break up with.)
To add insult to injury, the previous two birthdays were both preceded by untimely break-ups, prompting the day to be more about drowning my sorrows than celebrating another year. The Stillar girls mark such dismal occasions with the comprehensive "Break-Up Kit", complete with lots of sugar and alcohol and presented with just enough fanfare to remind you of what a total and pathetic wreck you are. But good news, one day your prince will come.
(Why tempt fate? Leave it to me to make it three times the charm when I don't even have anyone to break up with.)
Alas, the day dawned and God graciously allowed me the energy to face it. Three flower deliveries, one jazz-handed musical revue by my cheeky faculty and a host of text messages later, I was feeling quite blessed. What is more, I added to my tiara collection an inflatable creation which I was forced to wear, tolerated only by reminding myself it could double as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.
Perspective is everything.
Moving on.
Before any of that, and before I returned to school full time, I spent a week at CYT as choreographer for our 2nd Annual Show-in-a-Week. That's right. Let's get all of you who-knows-if-you're-talented people together and put on a show. Every night for four hours, it was dance dance revolution on a bad batch of crack. By the time it was all over, I was sporting a fresh pair of shin splints and a few extra butt-aches. Wouldn't you know, the jump from 25 to 26 is so not the same as 24 to 25. Nobody tells you that, either, so you have to wait til you're running a rehearsal, like you've done in your sleep for seven years, working up an awesome sweat and BOOM, your body tells you it's bedtime. Which I can handle, but not very gracefully. As in I almost ate a small child. And so, we learned that I should never attempt an extra 30 hours on top of an already full-time schedule, as it causes me to use my powers for evil instead of good.
The other piece of excitement these days is the impending arrival of my twin nephews. Blake and Grayson, or as we like to call them, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Not the cute Dr. Suess kind, but rather the shape-shifting alien circa 1982. These boys don't kick like normal babies; they drag their little fists along Molly's stomach and probably gnash their teeth and foam at the mouth and stuff. We always know when it's happening because she jumps up and starts pacing and jiggling and stomping, like that's going to help. Meanwhile the rest of us are sitting there all OH HEY SIGOURNEY WEAVER, DRAMATIC MUCH?
Part of the nursery decor is several pictures, including the ultrasound originals, which Molly wanted laminated. Fast forward to my standing in the middle of Kinkos, having just applied extreme heat to several delicate pieces of plastic. When I realized what I'd done, I dissolved into a pool of tears in front of the nice man who was desperately trying to figure out how his offhanded comment about liking my boots, could've been taken the wrong way. I made it to my car and called Molly in a panic, leaving a confession I'm sure she has saved and will bring out when she needs a good laugh. Thankfully she reminded me that the very day prior, we'd scanned in all of the originals. Ultrasound pictures included. Translation: All is not lost, you psycho. And take a Xanax.
When my department chair asked why the traumatized face, I gave him the story about having assumed I could laminate them just like any other picture. He laughed at me, said OF COURSE YOU CAN'T and I sat there silently berating him and thinking how does that help me now, except to make me want to staple your lips together. Then he walked away, only to come back later and announce that he'd broken the website, and when I asked how he said WELL I JUST ASSUMED I COULD UPLOAD THAT FILE BUT APPARENTLY I WAS WRONG. I asked do you know what happens when you assume?
You fry your sister's ultrasound pictures, that's what.
Perspective is everything.
Moving on.
Before any of that, and before I returned to school full time, I spent a week at CYT as choreographer for our 2nd Annual Show-in-a-Week. That's right. Let's get all of you who-knows-if-you're-talented people together and put on a show. Every night for four hours, it was dance dance revolution on a bad batch of crack. By the time it was all over, I was sporting a fresh pair of shin splints and a few extra butt-aches. Wouldn't you know, the jump from 25 to 26 is so not the same as 24 to 25. Nobody tells you that, either, so you have to wait til you're running a rehearsal, like you've done in your sleep for seven years, working up an awesome sweat and BOOM, your body tells you it's bedtime. Which I can handle, but not very gracefully. As in I almost ate a small child. And so, we learned that I should never attempt an extra 30 hours on top of an already full-time schedule, as it causes me to use my powers for evil instead of good.
The other piece of excitement these days is the impending arrival of my twin nephews. Blake and Grayson, or as we like to call them, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Not the cute Dr. Suess kind, but rather the shape-shifting alien circa 1982. These boys don't kick like normal babies; they drag their little fists along Molly's stomach and probably gnash their teeth and foam at the mouth and stuff. We always know when it's happening because she jumps up and starts pacing and jiggling and stomping, like that's going to help. Meanwhile the rest of us are sitting there all OH HEY SIGOURNEY WEAVER, DRAMATIC MUCH?
Part of the nursery decor is several pictures, including the ultrasound originals, which Molly wanted laminated. Fast forward to my standing in the middle of Kinkos, having just applied extreme heat to several delicate pieces of plastic. When I realized what I'd done, I dissolved into a pool of tears in front of the nice man who was desperately trying to figure out how his offhanded comment about liking my boots, could've been taken the wrong way. I made it to my car and called Molly in a panic, leaving a confession I'm sure she has saved and will bring out when she needs a good laugh. Thankfully she reminded me that the very day prior, we'd scanned in all of the originals. Ultrasound pictures included. Translation: All is not lost, you psycho. And take a Xanax.
When my department chair asked why the traumatized face, I gave him the story about having assumed I could laminate them just like any other picture. He laughed at me, said OF COURSE YOU CAN'T and I sat there silently berating him and thinking how does that help me now, except to make me want to staple your lips together. Then he walked away, only to come back later and announce that he'd broken the website, and when I asked how he said WELL I JUST ASSUMED I COULD UPLOAD THAT FILE BUT APPARENTLY I WAS WRONG. I asked do you know what happens when you assume?
You fry your sister's ultrasound pictures, that's what.
3 comments:
i love you, annie... you know how to put into words all those words that i forget are words...
i love you annie... and i love that luke loves you... and i love that you make more fun of yourself than you do of everyone else put together. and i love that you do it well... and often. go you.
Oh man so much going on there. Happy birthday btw. I know what you mean about the birthday thing (I grew up in a huge family as well.) Sucks about your sister's pictures. Sounds like something I would do, messing stuff up by trying to make it better.
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