August 16, 2022 by Amy
Happy Birthday to Me
This is the first day of the last year of my 40s and one of my birthday gifts is being given time to write. Which is great because that doesn’t always happen but which I also suspect was given with ulterior motives: Zoe has homework and M wanted to leisurely peruse eBay in search of vintage beer lights for the bar. Well, no gift is selfless, so I shall take this in the spirit with which it was intended.
Now, what do I write about?
I’m currently working on the tale of how we got a dog, which Zoe has dubbed “Truman’s Origin Story” (that’ll probably be the name of the blog post once it’s finished because I’m not above stealing my kid’s good ideas). I’ve started and stopped and restarted on this thing so many times that it’s a bloated monstrosity in desperate need of editing. Which I also don’t feel like doing. Forty-nine means I’m tired, y’all. (The analogy of this work is taking Truman out on a rainy morning and he looks like he’s gonna poo and then he doesn’t poo and then he looks like he’s gonna poo and then he doesn’t poo and I just keep chasing after him with an umbrella while cursing my decision to throw on flip-flops and begging a 10-pound Yorkie to please just freaking go already.)
I started a post about an experience of strolling through a local community on a gorgeous night after dinner recently only to have some guys blow by in a truck with a Trump flag while screaming “Fuck Joe Biden!” loudly out the windows. This is not a political post, mind you. I’d have been just as annoyed if idiots drove by with a Biden flag waving and screamed “Fuck Donald Trump!” because honestly, people, have we no decorum left? This is why we can’t have nice things. (There were children around, for fuck’s sake.)(Watch your fucking mouth.)
I am several chapters into a novel that I think has promise only there are a few sticky parts I haven’t been able to resolve in my brain yet and every time I pull up the blank page I end up writing yet another expository chapter when I know I need to just get into the meat of the damn thing. And the meat is dark. And heavy. And scary. So, you know, I got the fear thing going. The dark, heavy, scary part is what I know is gonna make it good, but hell if I know how to get there.
I started an essay about my sister and I cleaning out our parents’ home. Also dark and heavy and, in places, scary because it’s like cutting open a vein and letting it bleed on the page. This one won’t go on the blog. Or it won’t go on the blog until it’s been rejected by a bunch of places, after which I will shrug and then post it. The bones are there, and solid, but it needs work and I just haven’t had the mental strength to go back to it yet.
How about I write something entirely new? I can write about today, which was also the first day of school. This is very exciting to nerd me who loves school and learning and thinks that teachers are motherfracking rock stars.
Lots of people gave me lovely birthday wishes in person, via text, and on social media today, which is wonderful. My team got me an edible bouquet, which I have always wanted because who doesn’t love fruit carved into flowers and artfully arranged? That fruit is good, too. My sister and her family sent me HotBox cookies. Yum-o. I’ve also gotten birthday emails from my undergrad alma mater, one of my investment portfolios, my optometrist, my orthodontist, and Jimmy John’s. Two of the three cards that came in the mail were from our two financial planners. I guess this is what happens when you’re 49. Most of the mail you receive is from people you pay.
The greeting cards in the store are annual up until about, what 10? And then there are 13, 16, 18, and 21 year cards. I figure you hit 21 and after that you just stop counting birthdays unless they’re the big milestones. 40. 50. 75. Those get special, numbered cards. In between it’s generic cards that feature googly-eyed animals and food or, for women, hunky men, shoes, or old ladies drinking wine and, for men, sports cars, toilets, and scantily-clad blondes. There are a gajillion cards available and they’re all iterations of these same themes. Somewhere out there is a card with a googly-eyed monkey sporting a bikini and cute shoes while sitting on a toilet and drinking a glass of wine.
(Mental note about a potential blog post idea: the greeting card racket and how Hallmark is the biggest scam on the planet. Why yes, I’ll regularly shell out between five and seven dollars for a thin piece of cardstock that will be used once and recycled. Sounds great!)
So here I am on my 49th birthday, writing about monkeys. Pretty much exactly where I expected to end up.
Oh, and I found these mushrooms in the yard the other day and every time I see the photo in my camera roll I start giggling. Consider it my birthday gift to you.
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