*Preach it, Rachel Green.
I turned 30 recently, which is a birthday that bothers many people but me? Me not so much. Sure, I could live without the stray gray hairs and my forehead’s strengthening commitment to lines but on the other hand…uh…on the other hand? Sloooow metabolism, creaky knees, and did I mention the furrowing forehead?
Find the bright side, Mary Sunshine. Lift up a forehead flap, it’s probably under there.
So! My birthday fell on a Saturday this year, which was great, especially considering the curse of the adult summer baby. What’s that? Glad you asked. People born in the summertime generally spend their formative years with no responsibility on their birthdays, unlike those poor fall/winter/spring suckers who have to do the unspeakable, like go to school and do work on their birthdays. For summer babies, working on your birthday is as foreign a concept as dogs and cats holding paws and living in harmony. It just ain’t gonna happen.
(And if your animals get along better than mine, please drop me a line and tell me what sedatives you use to make it so. I’m just kidding. Don’t drug your animals. (Unless it really helps…))
Being a summer baby is excellent until, as it does with so many things, adulthood comes and delivers its cruel slap of responsibility. College ends, and a full-time job begins, and you quickly discover that jobs don’t take the same attitude on summer vacation. I remember the first year I had to work on my birthday. It was the year I turned 24 and the words “human rights violation” kept echoing in my mind, because perspective has always been a strong suit of mine. What sense of entitlement?
It hasn’t really gotten better over the years, but my urge to stomp my feet and cry has thankfully lessened. This year, though — this year took the proverbial cake. And assorted other pastries. My big 3-0 was on a Saturday AND — my in-laws were in town! Not for my birthday, no — they love me, but we had just seen them the week before and would see them the week after and I’d imagine there are limits to how much two people can take of me — but instead, for a Jimmy Buffett concert rolling through Cincinnati the next Tuesday. That they were here for my birthday was just a happy bonus (on my part!).
Because I’m me, I planned an entire itinerary around the weekend. And because Jeremy and my in-laws should be nominated for awards + sainthood, they tolerated it and played along with the
crazy person birthday girl.
The Buffett concert will be its own post, but here are the pre-parrot shenanigans. Shenanigans? Am I in a 1950’s sitcom?
We ate lunch at The Rookwood on the patio — a beautiful view and a gorgeous day. This isn’t there, because why would I be so smart as to take a picture to remember the occasion? This is at a random bar in Mt Adams, and the noteworthy thing here is not my sartorial patriotism, but instead I’m drinking a beer! LOOK at me! Granted, it’s a Leinenkugel Summer Shandy, so it’s more lemonade than anything else, but I got to order something on tap for the first time in my life. It was way exciting for this beer hater.
Later, we went to dinner at The Quarter Bistro in Mariemont, This is one of my favorite little areas of Cincinnati, and if Jeremy and I ever manage to successfully sprout a silver dollar into a real money tree, I’d absolutely buy a house here. Notice my lobster — I don’t know why I thought sitting on a sunny patio for lunch with skin the color of a polar bear would lead to anything other than this, but here it is. Dinner was excellent — Martha and I both got the black grouper — which, while it wasn’t the goth fish I was hoping for, was still very tasty.
After that, we went to our ol’ favorite, Salem Gardens for drinks and, in the case of Jerry and myself, feeding a lot of dollars into the jukebox.
After my birthday was over, we still had days of fun left, for things like:
And, then, finally, this happened:
Breaths baited, and all of that.