You know how I like it when the holidays are over? I feel the same way about my birthday. I’m glad to return back to normal. Yesterday there weren’t five minutes that went by that I wasn’t in some way acknowledging my bday, and even I was over it, much less anyone else.
Nevertheless, I persisted.
I ordered pizzas and invited some people to meet me at a pub nearby, after work. Well. It wasn’t “nearby” for my friend Sandy, who is dramatically hiding from the camera, here. Sandy had to come all the way from Michigan. And then hide the evidence.
Look, there she is anyway. Happily posing. So what was her issue earlier? How do you solve a problem like a Sandy?
Sandy and I are old friends, and she hates the name Sandy and it isn’t her name. Our friendship, aka my torture of her, dates all the way back to aught 84.
Dear June, do you even know what aught means?
We lived in the same dorm, and yes, she was also hot then. She’s never not been hot. I imagine she was a hot newborn, looking all sexy in her diaper. Anyway, in aught 90-ish, we went on to share a house with her yappy dogs and my delightful cat du jour. (Confetti, the peach-colored Persian, back when I actually purchased cats and I KNOW, okay?) (He was a great cat, though. He can’t help it he was purchased at a mall.)
Careful readers will recall her wedding back in aught nine, that I attended with our other college friend Dot. Sandy’s wedding. Not Confetti the mall cat’s. He never married. Lived with his mom all his life. Had fluffy peach fur. Used to sleep on my head.
Anyway, Sandy and her husband Allen, and I really hope I’m spelling that right, are here in North Carolina for a week and they just happened to be able to see me ON MY BIRTHDAY, which I’m sure figured heavily into their plans.
Careful readers can also see from that group shot way above that Griff, Lottie Blanco and her wife Lottie Blanco, Marty and Kayeeeee and of course The Poet showed up. Wedding Alex claimed she had to work at the last minute, and I’m certain she’ll make it up to me with a very costly gift.
The Lottie Blancos brought crudite and dip and cheese and crackers, and she asked if I wanted to take the dip home, which is the story of my life.
Also, Griff looks good, right? He’s lost weight. He’s walking like 8 miles a day or something. Meanwhile I’m taking home dip.
Sandy really wanted to see my house. “How often am I ever this close? I want to see it!”
I explained to her that the whole reason I had this gathering at a pub was because I’m fostering kittens, which is a messy business no matter how many times a day you clean up after them, which in my case is 47 times a day. I mean, they don’t always hit the box, man. It takes fortitude to deal with that and I already have Stanley Steamer scheduled to come clean this area rug in a week or two. This room is officially disgusting.
“I still want to see it,” kitten-poop-fetish-Sandy said. So we got in the car and drove to my marginal hood and she got to see my cute-but-poopy house. And sure enough, she stepped in a wayward kitten paddy.
Come to House of June! It’s number two on your list!
Sandy’s husband, Alan, Allen, All-in, is a wonderful person who tolerated the feces and endless chatter that was Sandy and me reunited. He also, just randomly, went outside away from us to be with Edsel and Milhous. But also, their 20-year-old (!!!) dog died not long ago, and he likes getting dog fixes, and sometimes all you have is an Edsel and it will have to do. It’s like when you just have to put grocery bags on the inside of your boots.
Anyway, they played Blu, and then I saw Allen/Alan/Alun running around and around my shed while Milhous chased him. I wasn’t even aware Mil would DO that trick.
In all, ’twas a most excellent birthday and now I’m 54 and one day closer to death. And I still haven’t shown you my gifts. Hang on. Let me throw some in here…
I’m so easy to buy for, if you ask me.
Anyway, that’s my birthday wrap-up, and now I must wrap up this post, and it’s smooth transitions like that that makes this blog a pleasure to read.