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I know a song is good if I close my eyes and require the emotion hand to sing it. And potentially a rocky relationship with my husband and a biopic, but that seems like a lot of effort for karaoke.

I once made 200 children pretend to be popcorn in a roped off circle. It looked like someone had taken a punk concert and reduced it in a photocopier.

The smell of oranges makes me feel that something good is on the horizon. (Even if it’s just eating the orange. Which makes it sound like I have really low expectations. Or scurvy.)

When I was little, I used to swing on the swings as high as I could and sing the tagline to a 7-Up jingle just as I reached the airspace parallel to the top bar. I don’t remember the jingle at all. I just remember that it was 7-Up, and that I would close my eyes and pretend I was a bubble rising. No, I wasn’t left alone a lot, why do you ask?

You can tell that I’ve actually injured myself if I forget to swear. Or if I’m bleeding heavily, or if a part of my body is missing. But I digress.

Isn’t science fiction an oxymoron? I know, I know, it’s not really. But I love it when I say things like that and someone is like, “NO, IT’S FICTION BASED ON SCIENTIFIC CONCEPTS OR FANTASTICAL EXTENSIONS OF SCIENTIFIC IDEAS” and then I’m all like, “Nerd.”

Hand cream always makes me feel vaguely unsettled, like an emergency is going to arise where I need to hang on to the skids of the helicopter but I’m too emollient and WHEEEE! off I go to my death.

I love fruit that doesn’t get your hands all messy, like mandarin oranges. Sticky hands could result in disaster. Though handy for hanging off of helicopters.

I think Slinkys (Slinkies? I hate “y” ending words that you can’t turn into “ies” words because they are trademarked or just stubborn) are the perfect toy for someone like me. Coiled too tight? Tumbles down stairs? Tangles upon stretching? Yes.

What goes around does come around, but sometimes it hits me in the face on the way by and bounces backwards and comes around AGAIN. That sucks.

I know, I know… I didn’t post on my birthday.

And it’s not like anyone was waiting with TRULY bated breath, but I do feel badly that I’ve:

a) concerned people who EXPECT ME TO KEEP MY PROMISES, DAMMIT
b) missed commemorating a major moment in my life in a timely fashion
c) left anyone with the impression that I went on some supernova bender
d) caused my Dad to hit refresh endlessly for two days without any payoff

I DID turn 34 successfully. Seriously. It happened. Go me!

And no, no true wildness, though we did cheer for a truckful of firemen and I did have to fend off a drunken man who was far too interested in my… well… parts.

It was a chill day overall, complete with the gift of a dozen roses from someone entirely amazing, a Hydradermie Facial from my lovely friend Catherine, and a great dinner out with Cat and Ash. I really wanted to keep everything small this year, and Cat gave me my wish, although she did ask up to the afternoon before if I was regretting that we weren’t doing a party.

Nope.

(The facial was amazing, by the way… they used buzzing machines and rollerballs and 6,237 different lotions and a gauzy masque and 18 towels and odd-smelling moisturizers and potentially a palm sander.

Seriously, though — one of the machines I HAD TO HOLD A GROUNDING ROD TO AVOID ELECTROCUTION. A GROUNDING ROD.

I don’t even know what that is, but I held it, lest my face get shocked off.)

Today I got to see my parents, who gifted me with candy from my favourite candy store in Cannon Beach, OR, SIX BUNCHES OF TULIPS, some other fun treats that made us all laugh, and a HANDBAG (white, good hardware, lots of pockets.

Because they understand me. And that I have things I need to carry about, none of which is a small dog or a Glock.

I should also note that, the day before, I got flowers and cake and happy cards from my lovely coworkers, and the unintentional gift of an hour-early departure due to bitumen fumes overtaking my floor.

Awesome!

Now it’s time to head to bed before another work week. I think I have to go to the doctor for yet another inflamed/injured/angry/unresolvedly bitter body part, and I am also getting my eyebrows ripped off.

Partly. By an expert.

Look for my more thoughtful take on 34 tomorrow, when I’ve given said parts a chance to rest up, and my brain can focus on meaningful ideas.

Oh, who am I kidding?

34.

Me.

Tomorrow.

And I’ll post, I promise. But whoa. WHOA.

34?

Wow.

I am too tired to write anything coherent.

And much sicker than I was when I left.

Both of things combine into a DON’T BLOG flashing red sign.

So I won’t.

I will share these point form items:

Got home safely
Feel like crud
Love my fireplace
Love my washing machine
Vancouver colder than it was when I left, which cab driver blamed on me
Wanted takeout, was too indecisive
Wifi should be more widely available
Home? GOOD!

I’ll write a proper post and put up more pictures and videos tomorrow. For now, I shall go die.