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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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7:41 p.m. - 2008-01-22
This is going to sound goofy, but if you're even the tiniest bit superstitious you'll understand. I am forever trying to ratchet my expectations down, not because I doubt Mick but because having waited so long for good things and the precious few that came my way before the advent of Mick always got taken away, fouled up, or I was made to pay excessively punitive prices for my pleasures that I am now unable to fully give into the expectation of joy. I mistrust the universe, not my man. Can you dig that? Also tied into this mistrust is my absolute refusal to volunteer for any more pain. I just will not do it to myself anymore. I know in time I will strike a good balance and will be willing to risk being hurt because the potential for good is high enough, but for right now I've drawn in my horns and guard my newfound haven with all my might. One of the ways I'm guarding against new pain is by not tempting fate by expecting things to go my way out loud. Just been slapped down too many times. Nowadays I have more reason to believe something will work out, but I still can't bring myself to openly say, "Oh I can't wait! It's going to be great!" That's just begging to be denied. And it hurts when I've been foolish enough to put my expectations out there only to have it blow up in my face. No matter how much I'm silently looking forward to something, flaunting my hopes in public is dumb. Dangerous. A sure way of guaranteeing it won't happen. Goofy. I know. Like I am soooo important that the universe goes out of its way to beat the crap out of little ole me. But there it is and that fear isn't going away any time soon. So. I would NOT get all worked up and giggly about how my birthday was going to be all kinds of wonderful. It was though. Absolutely wonderful. Sunday we met the in-laws at Outback for an early dinner. MIL loaded me up with all sorts of luxe goodies thus establishing a precedent which carried through all the rest of the loot. Everything from a gorgeous fur hood from Stephanie to every product in the Olay Regenerist line from Mick. Those were by no means the only gifts, I was a lucky girlie and was positively showered with lovely things. Dinner was the first of the night's celebrations as you will see. After a frantic scramble to find a different venue we found out the river pub was putting the band back on stage after the football game. Whew! Despite the queasy stomach Steph insisted on going out with us, much to my delight. Mo flaked back in and showed up too. So did Stephanie's lovely daughter Rebecca and a friend. We danced. We drank (poor Steph was doing okay until Mo bought us shots of Jaegermeister) and howled at the moon. One of Steph's former students was there celebrating her 21st and I let her wear the silly light up pin Mick had given me. It's a crown that says, 'Princess'. I got it back at the end of the night, thank goodness. Every true princess needs a blinking LED crown pin. Mick was in stitches over how I'd march up to strangers and thank them for coming to my birthday party. To a one those startled strangers broke into grins and wished me a Happy Birthday! Mick said, "Baby, how do you DO that?" And I just laughed and shrugged. Everybody could tell I'm harmless and who doesn't like a happy drunk? Speaking of drunk, after midnight came and it was officially my birthday and all the hugging and kissing was over I drunk dialed my ex. He actually picked up and I yelled, "I made it to 45, you miserable useless mofo! No thanks to you!" and hung up. Not bad for my first drunk dial, eh? Mick was delighted he got to sit in on the looped goddesses having a smoke in Mo's car. Already the night's topics had included putting your cell phone on vibrate, sticking it in your zorch and calling yourself a lot, so Mick was prepared for just about anything. Mo, Steph and I were speed rapping, tumbling over each other's stories, getting louder and faster, punctuating our riffs with a lot of "Oh fuck you!" and "God, I love this woman!" and Mick was practically peeing himself listening to us. He kept cracking up and gasping, "I can't believe this is what women talk like when there's no guys!" Finally Mo turned to Mick and asked, "What are you? A duck?" Causing another round of shrieky giggles and "God! I love this woman!" I told Mick he was one in a million because most guys would feel all outraged and dissed for not being the center of attention and here he was grateful to be allowed in on us being our private selves. He nodded and said just to call him Margaret Mead and I said, "Nah, her beard was thicker." The hilarity continued at the diner, though by that time Steph was barfing. I must say she is THE quietest puker in the whole world. No retching, no miserable groaning, just some discrete splatter noises followed by a flush. I steered her back to the table and had her sip ginger ale and slowly nibble on a plain bagel and little trooper that she was, she still managed to be a wise ass and stayed coherent enough to direct us back to her house. Whereupon she bade us a hasty good night and fled. Probably straight for the can again, poor thing. Yesterday was more presents, a lot of slouching around in my jammies, and talking on the phone all day to birthday well-wishers. The in-laws came back at 6:00 for cake and coffee. Mick, the best birthday giver ever, had decorated the dining room with streamers and balloons and had party hats and noise makers for everybody. And yes, I got my very own cake with my name on it and everything! The. Best. Birthday. EVER!!!!!!
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