It’s my sister Christy’s birthday! She’s thirty! Today! Wheeeee!
We’re going to meet up for Ethiopian food in a couple of hours and then go see the concert tonight. Last night’s concert was great, except Slaid Cleave’s fiddler just bugged the crap out of me. And that’s hard to get over when you’re in such a small venue. I just tried to concentrate on his guitar-playing and the words and his great jeans, but I kept watching her – a little twenty-year old blonde with long dreads, who only fiddled marginally, sang atrociously and mouthed all his words when she wasn’t singing.
I get to give Christy her Booga J bag tonight! Whoo hoo! I told her a few days ago that she couldn’t look at my site, and I don’t think she has. This is when we grow up, isn’t it? When we can keep ourselves from peeking, from looking in the closets, from shaking the packages under the tree. We figure it out – it’s only disappointing to guess it ahead of time.
At least that’s what I got from thirty. I totally dug turning thirty. I felt like I was finally official, not in my silly twenties anymore, but still young enough to still occasionally (and sparingly) wear glitter lipstick. Thirty-one is awesome, too. It helps that I’ve always had older friends and lovers – I know what I’m headed for and I’m happy with it. They make older look good. I figger I’ll be okay until just about thirty-nine, when I’ll have a stern talking-to with myself, and I’ll have to make friends with forty.
Off to fight briefly with Safeway about Bethany’s film which they didn’t have for me last night. I’m going to kick some ass if it ain’t there today. Yeah. Right. I would ass-kick with all the methodology and expertise of Charlie Brown. But I can SAY it as if I mean it.
Arrrr. Blimey. Forgot to talk like a pirate. Okey-doke then. I’ll swab the decks with the scurvy Safeway manager. And then buy some half-n-half, because I’m fresh out. Ahoy!