I'm almost an aunt!

Here we are at Friday again. Could be worse, right?

For the past few weeks, whenever I look down, the fly of my pants is down. We're talking all the way. Now, for the life of me, I can't figure out if I'm not remembering to zip it up, a task that I'd assumed I've pretty much mastered in the past 25 years- OR- If every single pair of pants that I own has a faulty zipper that insists on slipping down.

It's one of those "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" type questions that not even Siri can answer.

Damn it, Siri.

Last week Matt thought it would be really funny to be like "Siri, I just ran over someone with my car, what do I do?"

To which Siri, in her infinite wisdom, was like, "Sara, I'm calculating your location now." Because apparently she can't tell the difference between our voices. Stupid Siri. Anyway, THAT was one of the most singularly stressful moments of my life since we were SITTING ON THE COUCH in our home. Luckily, the cops never showed up and surrounded the place or anything. Then again, maybe Siri was just bluffing. What if I really HAD run over someone?

Actually, I probably wouldn't think to consult Siri in that scenario.


I wish Siri would remind me to zip up my fly.


Enough about Siri, though.


TOMORROW IS MY SISTER'S BABY SHOWER.

She's measuring 'ready to pop any time' according to the doctors even though she's technically supposed to have five weeks left. So that's cool, maybe this little nug will make an appearance sooner than later.

Last night I went over to my parents' house to help my mother prepare/decorate for Saturday and she reveals to me that she's "Not actually convinced there aren't two babies in there."

I mean, the woman has had four babies, plus mama knows best, right?

The results remain to be seen.

As for me, I'm just psyched for the free mani/pedis, copious amounts of wine, and chocolate fountain.

Oh, and the baby too, of course.

Happy Weekending!

five steps ahead

In a week and a half I'm going to board a plane and zoom across a vast and expansive portion of the United States before I touch down again in Montana.

 

I'm going back to Montana for the second time in three months. My fourth time visiting.

 

Why?

 

Because I made it through the initial application phase and onto the interview phase of my graduate school admissions crusade.  

 

Which means at this point, my dreams are still alive. Which is nice.

 

I wasn't going to say anything here because I didn't want to jinx what I see as good luck and I don't want to have to report back if I come this far and get turned down.

 

But I need to say something, because with a prospective possibility as large as moving to Montana looming large on the horizon, it's almost impossible to think about anything else.

 

As it stands, I only sent in two grad school applications. I still have two more on the back-burner, awaiting submission. (They're not due until May 15th, which seems ridiculously late, but whatever.) Both of the schools I applied to have granted me interviews, which, quite frankly, was more than I was expecting. The first one is via skype, on Monday.

 

It's hard to put into words in any sort of productive way how frustrating, difficult, stagnant, and stuck the past two years have made me feel, although I've bitched and complained and tried to make sense of it often here. Now that there is once again that flicker of possibility and change and growth, I'm ready to shout it from the rooftops.

 

Except it's not time yet, and now that I've grown up a little there are so many things to consider all of the sudden.

 

Before, when choosing a college or a summer job, or a new place to live, I just went for it. I'd take it. No problem, no questions, no matter the distance.

 

But now, my sister is having a baby, I'm going to be an aunt for the first time. My brother is playing college football here. My grandma is suffering from Parkinson's and is within driving distance. My boyfriend's family lives here. Hell, my boyfriend lives here.

 

But that doesn't change that I don't want to be here.

 

It doesn't change the fact that I still feel pulled to wild places, to mountains. To the next great adventure into the unknown, something just outside my reach. I wouldn't be myself if I didn't hold those yearnings at the core of my being.

 

Maybe it's a little early to be thinking this way, I haven't even interviewed yet, after all. Maybe only time will tell and in the end it won't even be my choice to make. 

 

But I've never been able to stop my mind from jumping five steps ahead.   

i've created a monster.

For Christmas this year, I got Matt beer brewing supplies. Kits, tubes, a huge glass jug, a plastic bucket, a book and beer making ingredients among the rest of the stuff that came with it.

We both like beer, we both drink beer, we've been really into micro brews for the past year or two, so why wouldn't he enjoy the creation stage? I totally psyched myself up while I was making the purchases.

In all reality, it was kind of a wild-card gift. I wasn't 100% sure how he'd take to it, and even as he opened the boxes, I felt a little nervous. Beer brewing is very involved, it takes a lot of research and the brewer has to be very meticulous with cleaning every instrument, watching temperature, measuring, etc. It's hard work. Basically all the stuff I pay to no attention to in my own daily free time.
Anyway, I was a little nervous. Especially since Matt is like the #1 world's best gift giver. For instance, for Valentines Day he gave me a first edition of my favorite book, Tom Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume. WHO DOES THAT?! He knows me so well it's astounding at times.

So he opened the box on Christmas and seemed happy enough. And then the box sat in the middle of our bedroom floor for almost a month completely forgotten. And I grew a little more nervous.

I shouldn't have been.

Matt has become a brewer obsessed, and I say that in the nicest, most loving way possible, since I'll be reaping the benefits of his labor.

Since he's started this little hobby, it's beer all the time. We've gone to various home-brew stores, I catch him on beer forums, and he's constantly writing up word documents with his latest and greatest ideas for the next batch.

He's got three different kinds of beer going right now and one ready to drink. This weekend we bottled the second batch of beer. We stamped the cap on like 30 more beers. It's a really intense process.

So basically, we're up to our ears in beer.

Like, lots and lots and lots of beers. And he's already talking about what he's going to make for the summer!

WE HARDLY EVEN DRINK DURING THE WEEK. And by we I mean him. And usually me.


Basically, what I'm say here is that beer has overtaken my boyfriend. And not even because he's drinking too much of it.... but because he's really into the science of it.

Nerd Alert.

this would be Matt, pouring our very first bottle of beer into glasses for a trial. (it was actually pretty good)

So yeah, I've created a monster.

i am just LOVING this song.

It's just perfect for this Saturday afternoon champagne haze.

how to piss yourself off.

 Ponder the compartmentalization of your emotions in the shower. Wonder if you actually feel anything for anyone. Lament the fact that no one you've ever been super close to has died tragically. Feel instant guilt.

 

Compartmentalize it.

 

Remember yesterday in your cubicle. The married dude with the new baby walked by your desk. Remember the instant you realized this had spurred you to fix and fuss over your hair. You don't even like that guy. And he didn't even look over at you.  He probably listens to Dave Matthews.  And remember that time he showed up in front of you with an ultrasound picture like a year ago and thrust it at you without saying anything?

 

Awkward.

 

He never makes a fresh pot of coffee when he pours himself the rest. Rude. Annoying.

 

You don't want to be the type of woman who primps because people are looking at her. Or even at the prospect of someone looking at you.

 

No one is looking at you.

 

Wonder if catching yourself in the act makes you more or less self aware than the people around you. Arrive at the conclusion of more.

 

Feel a little pleasure at this conclusion.

 

Realize you've just wasted your time thinking about this, when you should have been thinking about any of the 2383897 more pressing issues in your life.

 

Worry instead about the wrinkles you contributed to by squinting the way you always do when thinking about yourself unfavorably.

 

Arrive at yet another conclusion, you're vain.

 

And you annoy yourself.

 

Happy Thursday.

 

 

rothbury skip down memory lane

The other day I composed my plea to the allocator of everything good in the world. Because my need to attend Sasquatch this year is a force I simply cannot control. I gotta go. SRSLY. This appeal led to a little jaunt down memory lane, which brings me to the pictures below.

Behold, 2009. The event that rocked my quasi-adult world.

Rothbury.

this is what it looked like.

my friend dom and me mid-dance party. consequently, i'm wearing this shirt today. at work.

magical wood to frolic in? obviously.

artsy sun set shot? yes, everyone gets to be an artist at this festival. even me.

SIGH. Summer, I know you're coming at fast as you can, but please, please hurry.

i think i've mastered self indulgent rants.

When someone asks me "What do you want?" my reaction is usually an (un)healthy mix of anxiety and nonsensical rambling.

 

Which internally computes as anxiety and guilt.

 

Unless it's something easy, like "Bacon or sausage?" (bacon, always, always bacon.)

 

I guess in a broad sense, it's not so hard to pick out a few of my heart's desires. Just as long as it's not me specifically, as long as we're talking about stuff everyone wants- like a funky little house in the woods, more vacations, a fulfilling career, more dollars in my bank account, smaller pores, etc... If it's that stuff then I guess we're still on the right track and I'll gladly participate. But when I really truly get put on the spot about what I want, it tends to set me into panic sweats. 

 

The kicker? I have no fucking clue as to why that is! 

 

Let's talk about my childhood and my parents for a minute, really dig into the stuff where people tend to harbor their issues. At the root of in all, we're talking supportive, loving, providing people. Both in time and in resources. I lived a childhood that can be honestly described as abundant for christsakes, do you have any idea how few people come out of childhood referring to that time as ABUNDANT?? Me neither. But I can't see how it could be very many.

 

All in all, my parents were a good team, socially adept, encouraged me to play outside and read books, weren't afraid of screaming matches where the entire family got to participate, made me do chores/eat my vegetables/write thank you notes, and told me that when I grew up, I could do anything I dreamed of. Except become a Democrat... which I did anyway.

 

Sorry Mom and Dad!!

 

 

(Not really.)

 

 

Sure, everyone in my family is basically a borderline alcoholic, sure my mother is overbearing and makes herself the victim in almost every situation, sure my parents raised each of their four children completely differently so there was no consistency in discipline or rules, sure my dad was largely absent because he traveled for work all of the time, and sure I feel like I'm constantly disappointing them by not winning a Nobel prize, who doesn't? Still, the good stuff needed to create a healthy, assured, adult was all totally there, and for the most part, that's what I am. Besides all the rest of the stuff I just mentioned only adds to my character, and my character is one of my favorite parts about me!

 

So basically, I'm cool with my childhood. I don't feel like I was deprived of anything too drastic. (Anymore, because doesn't every teenager feel like they're being deprived of something crucial for living? I know I did. That's another way I was totally undeprived of a normal upbringing, I totally felt deprived at times!)  One could even argue that my parents went above and beyond their duties by fully paying for my college education, out of state no less. Whats that you ask? Student loans? Nope! I'm totally free of those shackles! Color me spoiled and hurl insults at will!

 

 

But, I'm not a teenager anymore. I'm not in college. I'm twenty-five years old. I graduated from college almost four years ago! I drive a Jeep! I have health insurance! I have a job that requires biz-cas attire! I pay my own bills! My boyfriend loves me and willingly cooks me dinner every night! My metabolism isn't completely shot yet!

 

 

I've made it, right?

 

 

So why the fuck do I feel like the walls of my life are crumbling all around me? I'm totally discontent, to the point where I can't even engage in a conversation about what I want without freaking out.

 

 

 

Ok, here's a problem that will probably become obvious: I have absolutely no idea what I want to do when I grow up, if that's even really a thing, growing up. Also, sometimes I have no idea who I am.

 

 

How is that possible? How can I have lived on this earth for this long and have no inkling of these basic personal facts?

 

 

I feel not only pitiful, but whiny and fucking ridiculous. I lead a pretty good life, there is no reason I'm so miserable. But why is it that after reminding myself of that fact, I still feel miserable? I've been in a funk for OVER two years now, and I have no idea how to pull myself out of it or get on a new path.

 

And I think one of the main reasons for this is that I have no idea what I want.

 

It's kind of ironic to say that about myself, because I'm pretty self aware, I also go to great lengths to attain things that I set my sights on- and I rarely fail. When I hone in, my efforts are of almost super-human strength.

 

But I don't know what I want. I'm not honed in. I'm sitting listlessly in my cubicle, commuting through a city I don't want to be living in, smiling fakely for the people in my life, filling my time with whatever can hold my meager efforts and attention span, like entire television series. And waiting.

 

Have a mentioned waiting? Instead of putting in the effort to figure out what it is that I actually want in life and going out to fucking kick ass, take names, and go get it, I've taken to waiting for it to appear. At least now I'm starting to become alert to how flawed THAT logic is.

 

I'm aware that I sound like a lazy little bitch that can't handle life's blows in my direction.

 

Trust me, if I'm not annoying you, you probably need to check your pulse. I annoy the piss out of myself.

 

I just don't know how to find it. That, IT. You know? That thing that I will do and do and do and pour myself into for the rest of my days. I don't know what I want.

 

I don't know how to find it.

 

I don't even know where to start.

 

And it's driving me fucking crazy.

 

Whew. Done.

an appeal to the allocator of all things good in the world

 Hey Allocator of Everything Good in this World,

 

 

First of all, you should know that most of the asshole things I've done and said, I was mostly joking. Okay? I was mostly joking and/or I thought it would be funny. So any bad Karma I have at the expense of those things, let's just cut it in half because it probably brought joy and laughter to at least one person. Even if that person was me. Plus I barely ever do anything bad anyway.

 

 

Okay.

 

 

I just want you to know that I'm semi-short on cash, so I have, like, barely even a prayer of making this little scheme growing in my mind happen anyway, but your help and support and general tip of the scale of goodness in my direction would be ever so graciously appreciated.

 

 

I really, really, REALLY need to go to Sasquatch.

 

 

Don't fucking laugh, I'm dead serious, you dick.

 

 

Just kidding, you're totally not a dick. See what I did there? Joking. Ha. Totally not a sin.

 

 

But for realsies, the Sasquatch thing is going to happen. I mean, please? Have you seen the lineup? Take a second: sasquatchfestival.com.

 

Yeah, I had a full-out sweaty panic attack the first time I saw it too. I was at work. I almost choked on my Werther's Original, pilfered surreptitiously from my bosses candy dish. It's totally communal, though, so don't try to ding that as another bad thing on my Karma. Understand? I'm allowed a Werthers, dude.

 

Anyway, what I need you to understand is that this is a perfect storm. PERFECT STORM. In case you haven't noticed, Mr Allocator of Good Things, you haven't really shown me too much love lately. I'm getting by. I'm fine. I'm just saying, and take this as you will, that I have honestly not been happier in my lifetime than I was for the four days I spent at the Rothbury Music Festival in 2009.

 

It was pure, unadulterated, foggy, frolic-y bliss. For a complete four days. Even when I locked my keys in my car and the little guy on the golf cart had to come and find me amid the crowd and break me back in for 60 dollars. EVEN THAT PART WAS AWESOME. Seriously, how the fuck did that guy find me? I looked like every other 22 year old that was four days unbathed, sun soaked, musically satisfied, and essentially an urchin. Yet, It just worked out.

 

And then what did you do? You took Rothbury away from the entire world after that. COME ON. Come on. One more: COME. THE. FUCK. ON.

 

UGH.

 

I"m still pissed about it.

 

 

So this is what I need. I need this to just work out.

 

I'm willing to do my part. I promise. Those $1 frozen meals? Consider that an every day thing now. I promise, no more sushi for lunch during the work week. Fine, no pizza slip-ups either. Happy? I will no longer enjoy my lunch hour for the next three months of my life. For Sasquatch.

 

Not enough, you say?

 

Fine, no more frivolous beauty product purchases either. (Thank G I paid for my monthly Birchbox for the entire year already.) Because I'm for real here.  I won't even tempt myself with Ulta. Or Sephora. I'll buy the $6 shampoo. Oh my god. I swear I will buy the $6 conditioner too.

 

That's how serious I am.

 

What? More?

 

Fine.

 

I won't buy a single book. I'm getting shaky here, so bear with me. I WILL. READ. ONLY. LIBRARY. BOOKS. You know I hate it when I can't write in the margins. It literally grates against my soul. I guess this means no more movie theater trips too. No more popcorn. I can taste it's buttery goodness as I type this, that is how strong my sensory pull is to movie theater popcorn.

 

You want more than a financial sacrifice?

 

Fine.

 

I'm not even mad.

 

I've resigned myself to the idea that I will live an existence void of joy for the next three months if it means I will attend this four day festival. But more than that, I will actively attempt to do things that will make those I care about happier.

 

Yes, I will willingly watch sport events with Matt and actively engage in fanfare instead of sitting next to him on pinterest.  I will scratch that place on the back of his neck almost constantly just because I know he enjoys it. Hally will be the most-walked dog in the neighborhood. I WILL PUT AWAY MY CURLING IRON IN THE MORNING. I promise, man, I'll clean up the kitchen more.

 

I'll let more semi trucks merge in front of me. I'll refill the paper towel roll at work and replenish the plastic forks. I'll make a legit effort to stop cursing in front of my 11 year old brother. I'll make myself quit picking at my split ends. I'll stop tricking Matt into telling me I am the hottest woman he's ever met. Ok, sorry, forget the last thing. BUT, I will call people back! I'll listen to my voicemails! All 45 of them!

 

I will scrape every last cent together. I will wear my broken glasses instead of ordering a new pair. I will reaaaaaally try not to order a 4s despite the fact that I've had my current piece of shit phone for two years and the speaker blows out every time I'm midway through a conversation with someone slash when I'm trying to chill out to Pandora at work. Yes, I'm aware Spotify is the cool thing now.

 

I WILL SWITCH TO SPOTIFY. OR NOT! WHATEVER YOU WANT!

 

Just please, please. Get me to Portland on May 24th. Jessica will no longer live there in a year and so if I don't go this year the opportunity will have passed!

 

I'm not being dramatic.

 

Other than a healthy niece/nephew and an end to world hunger/fighting/disease/lack of puppies, this is literally ALL I WANT. You have no idea how hard it was for me to say that! I mean, my phone really is dying. I seriously need a new one.

 

 

So please, just this once, do me this solid.

 

Let me make it to Sasquatch. Let my mind be blown.

 

I promise I'll be a better person.

how to get through a Monday morning

 Hit snooze only once for best results.

 

Pad toward bathroom in complete dark so as not to disturb sleeping boyfriend.

 

Start shower water. Brush teeth while it warms.

 

Ease into water. Keep it colder than enjoyable to stymie possibility of taking any longer than humanly necessary. Ponder rapidly disintegrating fucked-up dreams. Decide they're too weird to share with anyone today.

 

Moisturize. Moisturize like crazy. Fret over impending wrinkles. Deny, deny deny.

 

Check facebook/email. But just skim. You don't have time for this.

 

Blow dry hair. Ugh. Get tired/bored of blow drying hair. Put shirt in dryer. Finish blow drying *(#&$ing thick hair.

 

Start your car appox. 7 minutes prior to departure to work, via remote.

 

Grab successfully dewrinkled shirt out of dryer and choose one of 6 actually cleaned, actually hanging-up pairs of work pants. Silently thank yourself for cleaning your room on Friday evening. Curse yourself for not washing undergarments. Scavenge around for a suitable bra. Settle on a least favorite. Feel sense of pride at clean pants vaporize at prospect of wearing a shitty bra.

 

Decide against rooting around for breakfast, no time thanks to the damn bra debacle.

 

Rush outside and discover every window on your vehicle is still covered in a thin but determined layer of frost. Fuck! It wasn't on defrost. Damn it. Turn on defrost. Grab first sturdy flat thing out of purse and begin scraping violently at each window. Realize it's your debit card. Shrug and resume scraping, you don't have any money to spend with card for the next week anyway, it may as well be physically useful.

 

Ease car into the drive. Avoid stopping where not absolutely necessary. Shoot gaps where possible. Dig through bag until mascara is located. Apply at any reasonable time. Ie: various states of stopping and moving.

 

Get first decent look at the bobby-pin job you did this morning on bangs in rear-view mirror. Wince.

 

Re-administer bobby pins three times while simultaneously merging, changing radio station/volume, and answering phone.

 

Redirect attention toward insufficient use of mascara.

 

Greet boyfriend via phone. Go through various stages of morning conversation.

 

Mutter 'What the fuck?' several times at asinine/slow drivers.

 

Perkily answer, 'Nothing!" when asked what you just said by boyfriend. You're working on your attitude.

 

Curse at dropped call at the same spot it happens every morning. Check clock. Brood over a three minute period of time loss caused by missing a green arrow. 

 

Dramatically croon along to "Black Balloon"

 

 

Intermittently continue to apply mascara.

 

Exclaim "I lost you!" when boyfriend calls again. Silently curse out piece of shit phone.

 

Get in right lane to exit highway. Bitch about the half mile stretch spent going 60mph due to "Slow ass mother fucker. "

 

Spritz yourself with scent. Hang up phone.

 

Ease faster than really safe onto the street where your office is located.

 

Scan parking lot as you whip into your spot.

 

Realize your bosses car is missing. Watch hopes fly instantly higher than safe. Feel altitude sickness take hold from said hopes shooting through the roof.

 

Greet coworkers with "Where is _____?" (boss)

 

Exchange pleasantries. Learn of unreported Drs appt.

 

Silently thank universe for a brief extension from boss-induced stress.

 

Turn on computer.

 

Walk downstairs while it boots up. Scrounge around for stray food items/pour first cup of coffee.

 

Welcome to your work week.

i'll know it when i find it.

Do we all have some vague idea of what our future safe space of dreaming-and-scheming, creative projects, licking our wounds, laughing with our favorite characters, and laying our heads to rest will look like?

 

You know, home.

 

The home that when you walk in, you feel like the weight of the world has temporarily floated off to bother someone else for a change. The way your parent's house felt until one day, it didn't.

 

You know the one.

 

It comes in blurry half-frames and fleeting visions. Sometimes you look out the window of your car as you speed by and see a tree, THE TREE, that could someday, someday, provide perfect shade in the backyard of your eclectic little bungalow.

 

At least mine is an eclectic little bungalow, on the water, doused from every angle with the perfect combination of shade from massive trees and sun from the light steeping through. For some people maybe it's a brownstone, or a loft, or a sprawling mass of a structure set against a background of fields upon fields of flowers. But mine, mine is old and small. A place with character. Something that's passed the test of time. Something that needs a little TLC, so I can build a bond, take some sense of pride. A labor of love.

 

When I think of my place, what I'm working to find so I can work for it and perfect it and make it my own, I just feel my shoulders raise up toward my ears and my eyes squint and my mouth press into a little smile. Because I know what it will feel like, what it will sound like, what it will smell like. I have ideas of what I'd like it to look like, but that's not for me to decide, not fully.

 

But when I find it, I'll know.

 

Because it will be home.

 

A place where I will pour glass upon glass of wine and crank up Fleetwood Mac on the record player some nights whilst silly-dancing around with my best friends and laughing until we fall asleep in piles of mismatched blankets upon cushions and couches and beds with the windows open and a breeze whispering through. Have I mentioned the window treatments? Think vintage scarves of all patterns and colors sewn together and draped over a hand-crafted wooden rod. Yes, I dream in detail. And window treatments.

 

It will be a place where I'll come home and sit in my shaded backyard and pull weeds and talk to my plants and cry after a particularly draining day at work. Because no matter what you do, some days are just due for a good cry. God, the garden. So much green. And edible things. And blooms big and small. It will be my greatest pride.

 

It will be a place where I center the main living space around a fireplace and not a tv, because when I live, I like to be engaged and not plugged in. That doesn't mean I'm not going to have TV, because I like watching movies on plasma as much as the next 2012-ite... but really, I don't want to center my life around it.

 

Oh, I will have bookcases upon bookcases. For books. Books for days rainy and days sunny. Books for every occasion. I already have quite the collection, but by then I'll have doubled, tripled the volumes, with built in shelves, artfully displayed. And knick knacks and keepsakes from the travels of my own and those who love me.  But mostly, books. I will be surrounded by books and arty little prints and big colorful posters. 

 

I can see my front porch now. It's a sprawling affair.  And my front door, oh, it will be yellow. Or green. Or purple! I don't even know yet. My house and I haven't met, I'll wait to consult her personality for such a decision. But I can almost see her. She's beautiful. Just knowing she's out there, my little refuge from the world, it makes me feel better. I will find her.

 

 

I can almost see it. I'm so anxious for it to get here.

my poor boyfriend

The Superbowl is happening in the city I live in. I four short days. So, my little corner of the world is riddled with more celebs than have probably been here before or will ever be here again. This fact does not interest me in the least until the following conversation transpires:

He's an enabler, really.

Also, in case you didn't catch Kristen Bell's HILARIOUS interview on Ellen, I gotcha covered. You can thank me later.

Double also, I'm making my third attempt at braving the world of twitter. Sage advice appreciated. @SaraInIndy.

celebrations

Yesterday I mailed out my graduate school application packets, the final step of the process. I swiped my debit card and thanked the mail attendant who offered me his good luck wishes and strode out of the post office, back to the safe cocoon of my jeep. It was such an ordinary, mundane gesture. Just sending out a couple of pieces of mail. Just sending all my hope out into the atmosphere. Some Tuesday.

 

And when it was over, when it was finally out of my hands, all of my worldly worries were still decidedly unresolved, very much present. But that one wasn't anymore. I've done what I could, if I don't get in, I'll at least know that I gave it a shot. The first real shot I've taken in getting out of this seemingly never-ending rut in such a long while.

 

And then I made the infinitely wise decision to celebrate this small feat with five dollar pitchers of Fat Tire with my friend Erin... on an empty stomach. Not that the five dollar pitchers weren't reason enough, you know?

 

I make really bad choices sometimes.

 

 

But today is a new day and a new month and a new year of life for my darling boyfriend, who just so happened to be born on this very day, 26 years ago. So, I'm still celebrating. Just not with multiple pitchers of beer. (probably)

In honor of the birth of the man who holds my heart, here is a video of my shoddy attempt at anything 'happy birthday' via harmonica: