I went to get the mail today. I usually only snag the mail when I’m expecting a bill or a package, and today I was not-so-eagerly awaiting the bill for the new starter in my car – plus labor costs. While I did get an envelope from Roosevelt’s, it looked less like a bill and more like a card.

I opened it and actually squealed in surprise. It was a birthday card from the guys at the shop, teasing me about being old. Tucked inside was the invoice for my repairs, marked paid the 24th of December and signed happy birthday.

They paid for my repairs. I wasn’t expecting THAT. I was so grateful I went straight down to thank them, and of course they shrugged and denied everything in a typical male fashion. It’s random things like this that remind me, on occasion, people are completely amazing.

Today is your 27th birthday! I’ve always felt that birthdays are a time for reflection, not just table dancing and shot ingesting, so in honor of these traditions, I will start with a self-examining letter.

Self, you’re doing OK. You’re single and childless, a state of being you handle quite well despite your grandmother’s lectures on infertility and high risk pregnancies, not to mention her subtle references to your assumed sexuality. I say GOOD FOR YOU, not jumping the gun (figuratively speaking) and following the beaten path.

Your job isn’t what you used to invision as a hopeful teenager – instead of cultural anthropology or social work (as if you could handle not keeping the strays) or anything in advertising (too bad you found out you suck at bullshit) you have a desk job as a dispatcher at a sheriff’s office. Not your dream job, and definitely not exciting most of the time – but it’s allowing you to write a book, which is your true goal. A book that might eventually get published – even better! Progress is slow-going, but you’ll manage it eventually. Luckily, one thing you ARE good at is being exceptionally stubborn.

Now, rather than joining the rest of the world in making New Year’s resolutions which you’re likely to break before January the 2nd, here are some birthday resolutions to adhere to:
1) For god’s sake, CLEAN your space. You don’t even like messes. You’ll feel better once everything is organized.
2) Hello, spine? This is Amber calling – could you make a much needed appearance now and again so I don’t become a TOTAL doormat? Thanks.
3) Remember, cookies are instant gratification that will weigh on your ass a lot longer than the taste will sit on your tongue. Salads and fruit, my girl. You can do it. Let’s try and have a rockin’ body before you get so old it’s a lost cause.
4) Also, it might be a good idea to stop by the doctor’s office and find out what these continual dizzy spells are all about – quit being a pansy ass and make an appointment. Death is probably more uncomfortable than ten minutes on a noisy sheet of butcher paper, especially where you’re going.

Now then. Be happy. You survived twenty-seven years without completely losing your mind. While there’s plenty of time for that sort of thing later, you’ve also grown as a person (sadly literally as well as figuratively) and are now much more fun to be around. Happy Birthday, self! Now go shake it on the bar, you’ve earned it.

Last night I buckled down and started wrapping presents, an activity which always serves up plenty of frustration seeing as I gift-wrap like a blind giraffe. But I wasn’t frustrated (despite that damnable Cabbage Patch doll box). I was playing Christmas music and slurping coffee doctored with a healthy shot of Baileys and generally dancing around my living room like a dork.

I shoveled my driveway earlier in the evening, and then gave away the care packages our church likes to hand out (usually including turkey, pie crusts, food for the feast) because I always eat with the rest of the family at my grandma’s house. She’s the matriarch, and so we go where we’re told. Except this year, I had three boxes. Three. Two turkeys, an assortment of canned goods, even a loaf of bread. I was marginally confused but figured what the hell, more good will to spread around. And so I gave the two turkeys to my neighbor, who was greatly helpful recently when my car went ka-put, and besides he has a huge family of his own to feed. Yay for me and my good deeds, yes?

NO. I slept late today in honor of my day off and when I woke up I had three messages on my phone from my irate grandma, who wanted me to check and see if I’d gotten her care package as well because evidently the church told her I did. Ahem. And also, SHIT. That would nicely explain two turkeys, wouldn’t it?

So I called and explained what had happened and got a massive lecture on the common sense re: one person + two turkeys = obvious mathematical error to be investigated immediately. So now I can either a) explain the situation to my neighbor and request the return of one turkey, or b) go buy a turkey at the store and give it to my gran as a peace offering. Wait, that’s not a choice at all.

Honestly, I can’t believe my gran was surprised. Problem solving has never been my strong suit.

I very much dislike both repeating myself and failure – which is perhaps why I dislike dating. Is anything more humiliating or comical than to sit across a table from a stranger and try to make some sort of highly desired connection, while simultaneously being suspicious of that person? And while mildlessly swallowing the dinner both people are wondering who’s supposed to pay for, one or the other is also thinking: I Think I might like him/her, but am I going to get screwed?

WHY? Why do we do this to ourselves? It’s not natural. I mean, I know the likelihood of ‘meeting cute’ such as they do in movies is next to nothing, but isn’t there some kind of middle ground?

I’m a hopeless mess as a date. I get so wrapped up in the discomfort and the speculation that I end up not getting to know the guy at all, and then dismissing him as wrong for me. Every time I’ve been in a relationship, it began accidentally. Not by sharing pasta and awkward conversation.

And yet. I’ve started seeing someone – a friend of my sister’s, a fact which I’m certain will provide endless frustration and amusement for future entries. We’re actually dating. It’s sometimes uncomfortable, continually surprising, and frequently interesting. It’s always scary. Will I make an ass of myself? Will I get attached and then dropped like a stone? Will the whole attempt fail miserably, AGAIN? And usually the last is the most comforting of my worries.

I’m giving it a shot though, for lack of good television on Friday nights – unless anyone has suggestions on what to watch?

I’ve always been a materialistic person. It’s not something I feel the need to apologize for – I see nothing wrong with having and enjoying nice things. It bothers me when people act as though it’s some sort of sin to surround oneself with luxury, and that the only way to be truly pure is to wear dime store clothes and spend a lot of time trekking through the wilderness.

I don’t have a lot of money, but I get a thrill out of spending what I do have. Money is only paper until you turn it into something beautiful, such as a pair of killer heels or a pretty ring. If wanting a fancier bed from Crate & Barrel instead of using the functional one I currently have makes me shallow, then I can live with that. And I’ll be living well.

For those of you who were reading my former blog (myimperfectlife.net) I apologize for my sudden and unexplained disappearance. I don’t know how many months it’s been – things have been busy around here – but I do feel bad for dropping out of sight without a word to anyone.

My reasons aren’t even any good, really. I didn’t pay for my domain but I didn’t try to get things up and running again when my access was cancelled, either. I didn’t have a lot of time for blogging so I didn’t. And now I feel like a lot of things have changed, and my former blog no longer adequately summarizes my life…or maybe that’s just wishful thinking? So I moved here.

Here I am. Again. While I’m sure you guys are doing backflips and cartwheels aplenty, I should warn you I’m still largely without wisdom or a passable sense of humor. Please continue to come back anyway.

It’s about fourteen degrees below zero outside. It has been for the last two days, and despite my knowledge of this I waddled outside bundled up like the abominable snowman, wedged myself behind the wheel of my car, and cranked the key in the ignition – with no results. I had about ten minutes to get to work last night, and as I sat there muttering unpleasantries under my breath it occured to me that maybe I should have plugged it in? To keep the engine from turning into a giant block of ice? So that I wouldn’t have to humbly accept a ride from my co-worker? Who I’m sure was wondering how the hell I grew up in northern Montana without knowing that I have to plug my goddamn car in when winter hits?

This being Montana, it’s only going to get colder. Tonight it’s supposed to hit thirty below, and maybe even drop as much as fifty. I love winter, I do, but if my car doesn’t start tonight and I have to walk to work and maybe lose a limb or two to frostbite, I’m going to have to send mother nature a memo:

We get it! It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas – but if this keeps up, hell is definitely going to freeze over.

And just when I was thinking of quitting coffee, too.