Thanks to everyone who has already sent me well-wishes. I’m tempted to cut them from yesterday’s comments section, and paste them into today’s, because it was horribly ungracious of me to be all, “Existential angst is a-breakin’ me down! By the way, tomorrow’s my birthday,” and expect people to know what the fuck to do with it.

So, forget about all that, and happy birthday to me.

Today, like on all of my birthdays, I woke up all little-kid excited. I don’t expect much on my birthday, but it’s nice to know that among my friends and the people who know when my birthday is, I’m the special one today. I have no problem making people aware of that fact, either.

My bosses took me out for lunch, at some fancy French place I never, ever would have known about on my own. Before we left, one of them said to me, “Kelly, you can drink as much as you want when we’re out.”

I only had one glass of wine, but it was at noon, and anyway, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, you know?

It’s always a bit of a challenge hanging out with my bosses, because I have to be all proper. Because I keep to myself at work, smiling in my glass-enclosed office at the end of the hall, my co-workers think I’m constantly sweet, prim, and proper. They don’t know that in my spare work-moments, I spend my time writing about things like porn, poop, and yeast infections. The dichotomy cracks me the fuck up.

Likewise, at lunch with my bosses this afternoon, I found myself zoning out, my hands formally in my lap and my posture waaaay vertical, almost cracking myself up over something completely imprudent while my boss waxed on about, I’m so not kidding you, eighteenth century American military art. He’s a great guy, but tends to live in a private world of foregone imperialism. It’s weird.

But, lunch was yum.

On the way back to the car, my shoe fell apart, and I hastily shoved the now independent platform sole into my coat and pretended nothing had happened. Quite gracefully, might I add.

Given my klutziness, I’ve grown adept at either ignoring my stumbles, laughing at my stumbles, or pretending I meant to stumble. In the shoes incident, I thought it was best to ignore the stumble. My boss wouldn’t have known what to do, witnessing me behaving like such a mess.**

Incidentally, this is the third pair of shoes that has spontaneously combusted within the past week. The first two pairs broke at work, obviously on two separate occasions. The night of the second shoe rupturing, I was meeting a friend for dinner immediately after work. The shoes in question were Mary Janes, the buckle of which had gone to absolute shit, so the strap across my ankle couldn’t fasten. When I was getting off the bus in front of the restaurant, I kicked my leg out to take the final step, my loose shoe flew off, fucking up my gait, and I landed splat in a puddle. That, I decided, was a “laugh at my stumble” situation.

I don’t know what causes it, other than my naturally kamikaze-like klutziness which effects not only me, but my belongings.

So, let’s put “Shoes” on the top of my birthday wish-list.
Right after “Hot Lovin’.”
But, I think the “Hot Lovin’” part kind of goes without saying, so we’ll put that after “Interior Decorator/Ubermaid.”
So, the list should read as follows:

1. Coupon for lifetime of free liposuction.
2. Interior Decorator/Ubermaid.
3. Hot Lovin’.
4. Shoes.

I am a simple girl with simple needs. In fact, we could even consolidate a few of those items, shortening the list, to read as:

1. Coupon for lifetime of free liposuction.
2. Sexy, devoted, straight houseboy with a mean eye for color swatches.
3. Shoes.

Or, better yet:

1. Sexy, devoted, straight houseboy with a mean eye for color swatches, a degree in anesthesiology, and a powerful wet/dry vac.
2. Shoes.

And no, you kind find these things on Amazon. I already looked.

So tonight, friends are taking me out to pump me full of food and alcohol. Tomorrow, I’m having a party, where everyone will pump themselves and each other with food and alcohol, and then sing at me. Sunday, more friends are taking me out to pump me full of food and alcohol. I’m taking Monday off, when I’ll either go to a museum, do some shopping, or lie in bed, curled in the fetal position, while my liver stands over me, horse-whipping me and and screaming “WHY???? WHY????”

I’m looking forward to it. You’re all invited.

* If that joke was a character in a movie, it would be the Vietnamese prostitute at the end of Full Metal Jacket, lying in a pool of her own blood and panting, “Shoot [pant pant pant] me [pant pant pant].”

Sorry.

** I think my boss has some inkling that I’m not as WASPy as he’d like to assume. For example, I let he and my other boss choose the restaurant today, after sending them the following email:

“I'm afraid my knowledge of Chicago's epicurean offerings is rather limited, so I'll leave the suggestions up to you two. If I were to choose, we'd end up chowing on vegetarian burritos at some Communist-run hippie joint on the north side. Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

I’m a classy bitch, as bitches go.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004