On Saturday night, Matt surprised me with tickets to see Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the art museum. Bela Fleck is basically a banjo god and the only way I can think of to describe the show would be if Phish moved to the greater-Appalachia moonshine district.
It was the perfect night for sitting on the lawn. I have no idea how they get grass that soft; can we use V05 on our weeds and duplicate the feeling? I can briefly imagine dousing myself with patchouli and walking barefoot through the lawn before I switch places with a friend in the army and am sent to Vietnam in his place. But then I realize how much I hate the smell of incense and I am back in 2011, wondering what Beverly D'Angelo's secret is and if I need to start taking those supplements now.
The bartender broke out a calculator to figure out how much change she owed us from the $40 she was given to pay for the $21 bottle of wine [equivalent to eight bottles of wine from Walmart]. I'm not a real bartender, she said, explaining why she wasn't fluent in basic subtraction, before trying to give Matt $21 in change twice, despite the calculator flashing the number 19.
You've got to be pretty confident to think you've outsmarted a Casio calculator.
It was a fun way to spend my last night as someone who is maybe young enough to still have massive outstanding college loans.
The next morning, I was quickly reminded it was my birthday on account of Natalie waking me up with a birthday present: a grape tomato from one of my plants. Happy birthday, Mommy! I picked this for you yesterday. Which begs the question, where did she store said birthday tomato for the greater part of eighteen hours?
The biggest chunk of our day was Natalie's dance recital which ran a little over two hours. I had visions of my youth spent in sequined costumes and poofy hair and vowed no matter what, I would never use blue eyeshadow or Aqua Net on my daughters, ever. It was an introspective time.
After getting home, we fed the kids birthday banana splits for dinner and put them to bed like the good parents we are. You know, so we could stay up late and make nachos in peace.
Now a word about these nachos: I have been thinking about this particular recipe since I saw it first air in 2004 on Emeril. I kept thinking I would make it someday for a special occasion. I'm not really sure what kind of occasion warrants special nachos or why I was waiting, but on my birthday I made a decision that I was thirty years old and I deserved some labor-intensive nachos. I owed myself that much.
It was a very dramatic nacho epiphany.
Happy birthday to me. I should probably treat myself to a new girdle.
And I have been promised that there will be Pillsbury Funfetti cupcakes in foil wrappers frosted in Betty Crocker Rainbow Chip icing later on in the week, so I should probably move the girdle up on the to-do list. If you don't hear from me, it's because I'm slowly drifting into a diabetic coma, or as my father puts it, a whole new world.
Okay, I'll move insulin up on the list, too.