Talk about the best birthday you’ve had.
Today is only half over, my brain is getting to me so I thought, “write instead.”
The best birthday I have ever had was a long time ago and a memory I have with my real mother in it. I think I had to be 8 or 9. I have a photo from that party featuring a few friends that I recall the time frame of meeting, one of which I am still very good friends with today. It was a slumber party and the last birthday party I would have. I invited a bunch of the girls from school and most of them showed up. I lived off of Pioneer Rd. then in the house my great grandparents had left my Nana, (M. grandmother). They owned an electric company and had died a few months apart, leaving everything to her and us, by proxy, including the house on Pioneer. I remember begging my mother to wear the Halloween shirt I made her that she absolutely despised. In her defense, it wasn’t exactly fashionable. I had used acrylic, shirt paint to decorate a plain shirt with ghosts, brains and blood. She was a good sport about it though. My cake was Winnie the Pooh/Tigger and had trick party candles. We watched Amityville, my then favorite Horror movie series and played Monopoly. At one point during Poltergeist, some of us fell asleep directly resulting to shaving cream in our face and when it came my turn to endure the humiliation of falling asleep early, I remember being so angry with my real mother that I slapped her, hitting her in the arm. She got angry but I remember not getting in trouble for it other than just a verbal lash. Perhaps my friends being there shielding me. We eventually set up our sleeping bags in the front room. I loved that about the house. It was built in the 70′s, equipped with a room for dining, a room for a vanity, a den with built-in bookshelves and of course, a front room, for lounging… not to be confused with a living room for the obvious, LIVING :) They all left the following morning before 10am and having had the successful party early on, having had very unsuccessful birthdays later on in life, I can look back and say definitively, that was not only the best birthday but one of the most pleasantly, normal memories I have.
I’ve been weirdly into the names of things, particularly colors and even more so involving nail polish colors. This one is called “Dude Blue”… dude. I picked this bad boy up at the dollar store and used it with a red and white from sinful colors to show my patriotism for this particular week and though it didn’t come out the way I had envisioned or even the way I perceived it to be on the actual stamp, I totally dig the strange pattern and terrible gradient of the two colors (excuse the sloppiness).
I found a writing prompt a few months ago on one of the various sites that exist and though I saved it and thought to write, I hesitated because of what would be said. I thought instantly of the things I would have to describe, of the things people, even strangers, would then know. It’s scary to talk about yourself and your life. It’s even more frightening and pretentious to assume someone would care enough to read it. It would be for me, an occupation of time and a way to vent, not about the issues at hand but more of a distraction than anything. Why shouldn’t I? Typing them here doesn’t make them any less true and though my general direction is to forget, it could be nice to remember, perhaps an “opportunity to be hilarious.” (TY Michael Ian Black) And so, I guess, it begins…
Talk about your first kiss.
My first kiss, my first real kiss, was, unfortunately, awful. I was older than most of my friends had been for their first kiss. I was 15, getting picked up in a jeep with my then boyfriend, & his two friends, heading over to the friendly, local, homeless man, who would buy underage kids beer for their left over change. While the two sat up front orchestrating the deal, I sat in the back with the bf. Once we got our beer and started driving out of downtown, that was the big moment. He leaned down and started to kiss me and up until that moment, I was pretty convinced I knew what I was doing. I was ready for sweet, soft and slow kissing. Yet the moment came and there I was, locked in a sloppy, spitty, non-stop tongue movement, kiss. Before I could process my disappointment, this Romeo pulls away, looks down at me, cupping my face in both of his hands, then says, “Do you even know how to kiss?” Too embarrassed and thrown back to reply with, “DO YOU, BISH!?” I picked up my ego and replied, “Um yes.” two words and that was that. There was a bit of a reprieve years later, but that’s another story entirely.
The week had stressed me out to the point of tears and laying on the floor. Saturday, I shrugged off any obligations and took Kiddo to the beach. The water was calm, clear and warm while the sand was painfully hot. We stayed for hours, equipped with our zombie lunchbox filled with ice and fresh water. Towards the end of the afternoon the clouds rolled in, as expected every summer day and we headed home. I slept well that night though admittedly, I had plans that my sleeping had ruined. I woke up early and had every intention of heading to the beach again after our pseudo-tradition of Sunday Waffles, this time from scratch and a new candied bacon recipe. However, the beach was declined by the weather and I spent the remainder of the day cleaning and intermittently lounging.