I have things I could be blogging about, but instead I choose to bombard you with be-lated birthday photos. Because it’s my day off, dammit, and any effort is too much.

Brady’s 3rd Birthday Bash (at the start of which the birthday boy was pretty cranky and could only be bribed consoled with cake & presents):

He got a remote control CAT from me, a gift I snagged at the last minute, unaware that it also plays rock music & makes nifty construction noises. He liked it, but his dad liked it more…

…and I don’t think his mom liked it at all. Whoops.

Mmm, cake. Shown to it’s best advantage all over the kid’s face.

Speaking of cake, I’m thinking I should have taken home some of the cherry chip cake I made for Heidi. Too late now. Oh well, my ass is probably thanking me. (And I just realized I have ice cream in the freezer).

As you might have guessed, Brady’s birthday was good. Now excuse me while I go curl up on the couch with some bad TV and junk food.

Tomorrow is Heidi’s 25th birthday.

I remember turning twenty-five. I was still excited to have birthdays – not the least bit concerned with those who teased, “You’re a quarter of a century old!” Twenty-five felt great. I felt exactly the way I felt at twenty-one, or even eighteen (perhaps not something to brag about?). I thought of my goals and dreams, my hopes for the future, and didn’t worry at all that I might be running short on time. I was five years away from thirty with the attitude of twenty.

I’m not twenty-five anymore, and while I’m not sad about it I’m acutely aware that I’m twenty-eight (and a half). I’m still jazzed when my birthday rolls around – I’m too narcissistic not to be – but I also start running through my mental checklist of milestones. I’m not worried about wrinkles (much), or sagging skin, or the inevitability of my ass dropping about two inches. People get older, and no jar of miracle cream can prevent it. I intend to own my wrinkles and sagging ass, to wear them proudly. I just might have an easier time doing it if I’ve accomplished at least SOME of what I want to accomplish.

Checklists aside, I love birthdays. I love that there’s one day of the year in every person’s life that’s just theirs, a day they can feel special and appreciated and glad to be alive (hopefully). I love the cake and the ice cream, the brightly wrapped presents, I even love the expression on someone’s face when they’re faking – “No, I love it, thank you!” I especially love themed birthdays (and fully intend to have one, when I can get the cooperation of my friends & family).

Last year on Heidi’s birthday, I’m ashamed to say that I dropped the ball. Big time. She ended up sitting home by herself. I consider that unforgivable, and fully intend to make up for it this year. Starting now – feel free to wish her a very Happy Birthday!

And have a great day yourselves.

BEST. TIME. EVER.

Kate called me about three weeks ago and informed me that she managed to procure tickets, that would be concert tickets, to the Goo Goo Dolls performance in Billings on the 26th of May.

It took me about .00007 seconds to decide that NOT attending would be an unforgivable sin before screaming YES about six times and probably rupturing her ear drums. In case you’re wondering, it’s true, I am a freak. Also? The Goo Goo Dolls have been one of my favorite bands since I was too boobless to wear a proper training bra.

Anyway, it was completely amazing. They had so much energy! And humor! And they sounded so good! I swear Johnny Rzeznik has to be forty-something but he bounced around on that stage like he was fourteen.

It was entirely worth it to go broke for the next two weeks to see them live. And broke is exactly what I am. My ticket was $35, dinner at the Olive Garden beforehand was $23.20 (because for some reason the Olive Garden thinks it’s appropriate to charge FOUR EFFING DOLLARS for a little itty bitty dish of marinara sauce), the t-shirt I couldn’t live without was $30 (it should be noted that afterward we went to Walmart and I got two t-shirts for $4 a piece, therefore cancelling out the expense of the band t-shirt – don’t ask me how I justify these things), and gas to get to and from Billings was about $80. I hesitate to add it all up (actually I refuse) but you get the idea – my fun money for the next month or so is officially spent.

But I don’t even care, because it was WORTH IT. Behold, one of the many moments we spent spazzing the hell out, captured on camera:

Check out all the teeth, we’re like a damn toothpaste ad. It was definitely worth it.

My little brother Joel graduated from high school on Sunday.

I wish I had something to give him, some great advice more valuable than money or a set of towels, but the truth is I don’t feel qualified to give advice. My own life experiences, while entertaining, often leave me feeling as though I’m not exactly role model material.

He’s planning to attend college at Montana State University-Bozeman, where I hope he gets stuck with a not-too-annoying roommate and engaging professors and courses that hold his interest. He’s a smart kid, and charming when he wants to be (but a serious pain in the ass at all other times), and I have confidence that he’ll be fine.

If I were going to offer him my lame advice (which I totally AM NOT), it would go something like this:

* Not everyone deserves the benefit of a doubt. I swear. Trust your instincts, you have them for a reason.

(Yes, my first piece of advice would be encouraging him to be a judgmental ass. Don’t even pretend to be surprised by it).

* Get a job. It will keep you in ramen noodles and out of trouble. But…

* Don’t work in food service. That grease smell will ensure you never, ever get dates (and the pimples don’t help, either).

* Don’t date any Mormons. They don’t put out and they WILL try to convert you, no matter how much they say they won’t.

* Introduction to Film (or whatever they’re calling it now). Take it. You won’t regret it.

* Don’t bother calling me for bail money. I’m broke.

That’s it. (See also: the reasons I don’t give advice, and will instead be gifting cash while smiling and not saying a word).

Wish him luck (and, for the future, hair that doesn’t resemble Justin Bieber’s QUITE so much)!

I had an appointment in Havre today at nine o’clock, which forced me to get my lazy butt out of bed at seven-thirtyish (it takes an hour to get there from here, and yes I did have bad hair why do you ask?).

I stopped at my friendly neighborhood gas station to fuel up and add antifreeze (my tank has been working on a slow drip for a little over a month, and being who I am I chose to continually add antifreeze instead of spending what I figured would be an exorbitant amount of cash to fix whatever was wrong). The attendant added antifreeze and checked the oil and I was just about to drive off on my merry way when he motioned for me to pop the hood again. I did, but it was already 8:02 and I was muttering impatiently under my breath. Then he started gesturing for me to get out of the car and have a look – never a good sign.

Sure enough, my little leak had turned into a cascade. Ever hopeful, I inquired about possibly still making my appointment in Havre. I wish I’d had a camera to capture the look on his face as he said, “You can’t drive this car anywhere.”

I went back to my office to inform my co-worker & friend that I wouldn’t be making my appointment after all (okay, I just wanted to bitch about my car) and she suggested borrowing my sister’s car.

Heidi has witnessed my driving more than once, and ONLY once she was a white-knuckled, prayer-reciting passenger. I was fairly certain she would just hang up on me, but miraculously she agreed to let me take hers – although she did include a note mentioning that driving very safely would be in my very best interests.

I made it to my appointment and when I got back, a couple of the guys I work with were rummaging under my hood (eek!). I hustled over making noise about maybe hiring someone who actually has a clue what the hell they’re DOING to fuss with my car’s inner parts, but I needn’t have worried. THEY FIXED IT!

Evidently the problem was a crack in the bottom of the plastic tank thingy, which they took to a friend of theirs to weld shut. Even if the handiwork doesn’t last (which it should), they said I could get a second-hand tank for cheap if I needed one. IT WAS FREE! A free fix! And if it doesn’t hold it’s going to be a CHEAP fix. This is the best news I’ve had in a while, and I was grinning like a lottery winner as I test drove it to make sure the temperature gauge was behaving (it was!).

Most of the time it drives me insane that the men I work with are macho, very old-fashioned types (in this instance old-fashioned can be defined as someone who still believes women are ignorant about everything except making & raising babies), but not today! Today I love them.

Even better news? Now that my car is fully functional again I can actually GO TO THE GOO GOO DOLLS CONCERT in Billings on the 26th! Kate bought tickets and invited me and OH GOD OH GOD the Goo Goo Dolls, people! They’re my favorite band and I was so bummed at the prospect of maybe not being able to go, but now I CAN.

Coming soon: embarrassing antidotes about things I did at the concert one should probably never admit to.

I had the weekend off and I took full advantage of it. There was a dance on Friday night and a mixed martial arts tournament in Havre on Saturday night.

The tournament was by far the best part of the weekend. It was staged just like the real UFC, with a cage and spotlights and the tiny spandex shorts worn by competitors. They had not-quite-dressed ring girls, too (apparently Heidi was asked to perform that honor and politely declined) and waitresses brought trays full of beer to the VIP tables. We had a great table, close enough to the ring that we could see – and hear – pretty much every punch or kick.

The whole event lasted about three hours, including an intermission in which the line for the bathroom was ridiculous. People should have obviously been drinking less beer and paying more attention to the fights.

A lot of the local guys won, which was nice, and we got to go dancing/drinking with them later at 15 West. The band was great, as well as dressed to impress in yards of leather and glitter.

Fun was definitely had. I crashed at my brother’s house and woke up to a lovely breakfast of eggs packed with veggies and barbequed ham. We lazed around talking until someone finally suggested we should all shower and get back to the business of life. I can’t wait to do something like it again, hopefully very soon.

It’s been nearly a month since my surgery, and I finally feel well enough to stop lazing around on the couch eating potato chips and concocting elaborate fantasies about David Boreanaz watching the third season of Bones.

Yesterday I went to the gym. I did my regular workout, which includes 25 minutes on the elliptical, and I didn’t start having pain in my side until about the last ten minutes. (Do not bother to ask if I stopped, the answer will only make my loved ones roll their eyes and lecture). I lifted weights and was annoyed when it proved harder than it was a month ago. I stopped short of jumping rope, because sometimes I do have a smidge of common sense.

Every Wednesday night they have volleyball at the high school gym; usually there’s a decent crowd and it’s a lot of fun. I started going a few weeks before my gall bladder attack, and went back tonight filled with anticipation. (I seriously considered going last week but was warned that if I attempted such nonsense I would be forcibly tied and gagged – or at the very least turned away by the other players. Having a low tolerance for humiliation – weird, considering all the practice I’ve had – I opted to stay home). I thought I did pretty well, excepting the last half an hour or so, when my side started to hurt and my serves started hitting the net. Everyone played really well. We had two full teams and we were evenly matched. I had more fun tonight than I ever have before, nevermind the ache in my side.

It’s such an incredible relief to be physical again. I didn’t realize how much I was enjoying my workouts until I was ordered to sit on my backside for a whole month. Thank god that’s over.

I’m off to bed, as I agreed to wake up far too early to take care of my best friend’s infant daughter. They just found out the severe allergies she’s been suffering from are caused by dogs and cats, and her regular babysitter has a dog that sheds everywhere. I love Izzy to bits, and have zero problems taking care of her for a day. I think my weakness for the kid is completely evident considering that I’ll be rousing myself from the comfort of my bed at dawn to change diapers and chase her away from the various sharp objects littered throughout my house.

Sleep tight, everyone.

There is a man in my life who likes me. He’s single and considerate and persistent, all of which are good qualities (especially the persistence, especially in my case). One night while I was working he popped in unannounced with a couple of tabloids for my entertainment. He grabbed two or three, because while he noticed my weakness for them, he didn’t know which ones I liked. He calls sometimes – not often enough to be labeled a stalker, but often enough to let me know he’s still interested.

A week after my surgery, he had flowers delivered to my house. I’m helpless against flowers, and normally a gesture such as that one would have caused me to swoon and immediately kiss the person responsible senseless. The card said that he was thinking of me, and hoping for a speedy recovery.

He’s a genuine, sweet man with the best of intentions. He’s the type to marry and raise a family and never take his wife for granted (or at least not usually). He works hard at the BioDiesel plant here in town, and he doesn’t smoke. He comes from a large, close-knit family of his own.

He stopped by the office last night to ask me to go to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have to work, thank god, so I gave him that excuse instead of just telling him he doesn’t have the slightest chance with me. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. I wish I could fall in love with him, or at the very least be madly turned on by him. The problem is, he excites me about as much as watching paint dry.

My sister says this is because I won’t give him a chance. She says I took note of the way he dresses and his balding head and dismissed him. I admit she’s right about the head thing; I like a man with hair, end of story. I’ve never been attracted to hairless types. It’s just who I am. As for the clothes, she’s wrong – I could care less that the guy wears Wranglers and Carhartts. She claims I want someone more stylish, like her husband. (Truthfully, I went shopping with him once, and it scared me how GOOD he was. He was quick, he knew just where to find the sale rack, and exactly what looked good on his tall, lean frame. I was amused & a little intimidated. I have never been that good at shopping). I’ve never cared what clothes someone wears. As long as he’s not filthy or patched together with duct tape, I say live and let live.

The Marine has a style similar to mine, but like Heidi’s husband, he’s also a better dresser than I am. Now that I’m thinking about it, most people are better dressers than me. I consider jeans and a sweatshirt acceptable for almost every occasion, I wear socks with my Keen sandals (PISS OFF, naysayers), and I consider throwing on my American Eagle khaki pants being “very dressed up”. But I’m getting way off track here.

The point I’m trying to make is, The Marine makes me laugh. He keeps me interested. I find him (and his dark hair) very sexy. I worry about what to say and what to wear when faced with seeing him. When faced with the sweet, genuine man who actually likes me and DOESN’T blow me off, I feel nothing. Except for a hopefulness that he’ll take a hint and give up on me and date a woman who wants nothing more than to settle down and be his wife.

I’m not wifely material. Heidi? Heidi is wifely material. She’s considerate and thoughtful and attacks dust and grime like they’re the enemy. She has GADS of love to pass around, absolute gads. Her dogs are a little spoiled and very happy, and I suspect her children (when she has them) will be the same.

I wish I could spend Valentine’s Day with the man I love, laughing and eating chocolate (or possibly whipped cream) and just BEING. I wish the Nice Guy could spend it with the woman he loves. I wish we could all, just for one day, eat conversation hearts until we’re sick and smile until our faces ache.

Today is my birthday. I’m twenty-eight. I do not feel any wiser. I did wake up feeling a lot sicker than I was yesterday. (Hmm, “sicker” doesn’t sound like a word). My throat is aching, my ears are throbbing, and the drippage is decidedly gross.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMBER! HAVE A COLD!

I don’t have plans. I was supposed to work, but evidently I requested today off over a month ago and completely forgot. So my sister and I are doing dinner tomorrow night, instead. And I’m lounging around in my ugly red and white slippers watching the first season of Sex & the City.

I’m not throwing a pity party or anything (much) (despite what this might sound like), and I haven’t got a problem spending my birthday drinking tea and having lots of quiet reflection.

Or watching Carrie Bradshaw have a lot of quiet reflection (and a lot of sex, which I also cannot have).

I have high hopes for a fantastic year, filled with success and triumph and love. I’m determined. I will kick ass and take names. Watch me.

What I spent time making with Tayla and my munchable niece Lara the other morning:

Yeah, the image kind of sucks. I don’t photoshop well.

We also made snow angels. Lara was skeptical that lying on her back and flailing about was something she would be interested in doing (I can’t imagine why – perhaps because her mother & I looked like a bunch of mental patients, laughing and rolling in the snow?) but eventually we talked her into it. She was way more excited about the snowball-throwing portion of the morning. She squealed and tried like hell to make her own ball while Te & I had a quick war – which I won, of course, having superior aim and speed. (Okay, so I got hit in the face one time, BIG DEAL).

NO, we didn’t throw snowballs at the kid – or if we did, it was just enough to make her feel included, and not hard. And despite the photograph evidence proving otherwise, she was wearing mittens for the duration.

PS: If snowmen – er, women – could come to life, that one would kick our butts for giving her a huge, lopsided carrot nose.