I’m sorry for being the debbie downer of the century. I know that I have the unique ability to sled at frightening speed through down in the dumps land.
Thankfully, birthdays filled with well-wishes and material lusts and Pouparts cakes will haul anyone out of self-pitydom.
Let me tell you a story. When Mom was in labor, Dad could think of nothing but fatherly glory. As is often the case with the non-laboring party, Dad had plenty of time at the hospital to come up with big plans. It being his birthday, his plans involved decades of shared cakes and presents. How great would it be he imagined, to have my little baby born on my birthday? So he went into the hospital room and made a promise: “If you are born on this day little Breaux, I will buy you a pony.” Not wanting to share the spotlight, I waited one more day. Maybe the me floating around in ooze weighed the benefits of a pony against the deteriment of infinite shared events. It’s doubtful because as it turns out, I would have traded physical deformity for a pony.
There was really no need for me to ever know this little pre-birth tale. I could have been a day late and a pony short in blissful ignorance, but Dad just couldn’t keep it to himself. Instead, years of birthdays with pony gifts followed. I’ve collected every manner of pony from wooden to plastic to a real one on loan – every single equine porported to be my nearly fated mate. So today is I could have had a pony day. Happy 56th Daddy.
I’ve just completed application #4809. I’m serious. I’m running out of positive spins – how many ways can you write: I’m not qualified, I’m educated in a different field, but hey, hire me because I’m special? Some of these application procedures are painstakingly tedious. This last one took me several hours to complete.
All of this effort has resulted in one little interview. A second interview, actually. As is always the case with single interview opportunities and only children, you end up pinning all of your hopes on it to your own detriment. I am excited, but I’m not writing any more until I know whether excited is merited.
Ryan let me tag along to Petsmart on Sunday. Ostensibly I went to oogle the the Habitrial Ovo, a feat of ham habitat design if not function. But one only need turn her body 90 degrees from the Ovo display to be facing the adoptable rodent section. There before me were some of the cutest baby ratties ever born – three hairless and two dumbos. Pure love. I’m guessing that they were about five weeks old – which makes them tiny still.
The rodent kid knows me by now and let me sneak into the keeper area to hold them. We chatted about Pinky while I petted and picked up each rat in turn. My fear was that Ryan would make his way back over from the dog section in time to find me cuddling more rats. Instead, I made it out in plenty of time and then tattled on myself by gushing about cuteness and half-dragging him to the plexi cases. He was much more taken by the pesty little chinchillas.
Tomorrow is number 26, which as Jon pointed out, is as unexciting as it sounds. Maybe a trip to the midnight showing of HP will make it memorable!
