It’s my birthday!
You’re like, “Well crap, now I’m obligated to read the rest of this post.”
DANCE, PUPPETS, DANCE.
But you’ll like this. The other day the kids were (sort of) decorating these shoe boxes that they’re taking to school today that will act as their “Reading Treasure Boxes” for the rest of the year. They were instructed to decorate the boxes how they please. Go crazy! Fabric, lace, stickers, anything. Get super creative and make them theirs, right? So of course Nat wants the glitter. And I say, in my best Madame Gazelle from Peppa Pig voice, “No glittah! It vill get…evrywheeeeh!” Yet I totally still let them.
BUT, Nat somehow slyly convinced me that if *I* open the glitter bottle, she can reach in and pinch out just how much she needs and that it will be fine, mom. So I try to open the glitter bottle. And it’s hard to open. Like, stuck. So I pry, make a weird face, pry a little more, little baby cursey slips out under my breath, pry a little more and – LID FLIES OFF GLITTAH IS EVRYWHEEEEEEH!
I sit, paralyzed in a sea of glittery gold dots all over my legs, lap, couch, rug, life. Nat, calm but clearly panicked, “It’s okay, Mom. This is okay. We’ll get it up. Wow, okay, it’s okay.”
And Will said, in the steadiest, most nonchalant voice, “Mom, are you having a total nightmare right now?”
Kids knows me.
(and I laughed.)
(and still have glitter in my crotch.)
You guys we’re going camping.
In a month and a half, we’re going camping with like, thirty of our close friends. But it’s already looming.
I feel like Bernadette Fox in the way she was frantically preparing for Antarctica. Nervous, anxious, ordering all the things. (except I don’t have a spy/assistant from the other side of the world “ordering” for me. maybe.)
I don’t camp. I don’t like to sleep outside with roaches and mosquitoes and bears and snakes and alligators. Like my sister says, “Camping sure is paying a lot of money to act like you’re homeless.” <—-YERP.
I mean, I get it. Cozy flannel and fire pits and acoustic guitar singalongs and s’mores and the twinkling night sky.
I think what will help me is if I think about camping STYLE. This is how I can get through the weekend. (well, and wine.) We have our tent, we have our sleeping bags and air mattresses and cooler. We need CHAIRS. CAMPING CHAIRS. But I don’t want to look like an extra on Duck Dynasty, so y’alls better tell me some hip camping chair brands. It’s my birthday, you have to!
And any other camping essentials and tips. Oh! I wonder if I could get that one drug that Bernadette Fox takes and falls asleep in that lobby with her fishing vest on! It’s totally legal, right?
You know how in ’90s hip hop, the rappers always call out the year? Like, in the middle of a song, “Nineteen Ninety FIIIIIVE!” Or “Yo, dropping it like Ninety Three!” Or, “Yeaaaah Nineteen Ninety ONE!”
Why doesn’t Celine Dion ever do that? Or Sarah McLachlan?
“My HEART WILL GO OOOOON IN NINETEEN NINETY SEVEEEEEEN.”
“I will reeeeeeember Nineteen Ninety Fouuuuuur.”
Or even Wilson Phillips. “HOLD ON FOR ONE DAY IN NINETEEN NINETY TWOOOOO.”
I just really feel like they missed the mark there.
Have you ever noticed how when you order an Uber (is that even the way to say that? Order? “Yeah I’ll take one clean Uber please with a non-murdery driver. Thanks.”) – it always says, “Connecting you to eight nearby drivers.”
Eight. It’s always eight drivers. Not five. Not twelve. Eight. And I can preeeeeetty much guarantee it ain’t eight. I think they say EIGHT just to make you feel safe and not completely deserted forever. “Let’s just tell her eight so she doesn’t panic and start barf crying.”
When we all know it’s one car. Far away. With a rattling muffler, a unibrow and a weird smell in the seats.
But it said eight so we’re fine!
(Also, do you Uber or Lyft? Which one’s better? It’s my birthday, you have to tell me!)
You’ve probably figured out by now that it’s my birthday. THE BIG FORTY THREE. #jowls So naturally we’re going to play Pickleball with my parents today. I’ve never played! But I’m killer at ping pong and semi-okay at tennis, so I feel like I got this. Wait, what do people wear at Pickleball? I feel like I somehow need to dress like young Lucille Ball on a vintage tennis court.
Am I close?