learning to name things

All the milestones hit at once. I turned 35 on Saturday. Said goodbye to my proclaimed Year of Debauchery and toasted in The Year of Conscious Choices - designed solely for the purpose of keeping me out of trouble. Tomorrow is my one year anniversary of leaving Minneapolis. The yellow Ryder truck, the small Montana made me feel, the cute punk rock boy I was lucky enough to kiss. A few days after that I started my new job. Met the then strangers that would become my best friends. Met the boy I still can’t put into words. Realized quickly that a year lease is a really long time in a sketchy neighborhood. I remember getting here and thinking Seattle was all possibility. That I was going to change someone’s life. That I had changed mine. Three hundred and sixty five days later, I still feel the exact same.

Potential / potently.

Birthday events like comic book panels. Moving the story right along. A midnight donut run with Boo where we listened to a homemade fart CD. Not our handiwork, mind you. Charlie’s Greatest Hits. By track 62, I was having a hard time catching my breath. By track 85, Boo was curled up into a little giggling ball. Next. A mad chase to follow a shopping cart race. Waving and yelling as Chris and friends rode past our window, red shopping cart bouncing wildly behind them, pirate flag flapping in the breeze. Later. Someone else's birthday party. It was attended by a hodge podge of artists, musicians and indy business types. A faded rock star working on a feedback opera. A tattooed man in grad school for nursing. There was a rice crispy treat cake with frosting and mashed up Whoppers that was so dense you coulda killed a guy with it. An accidental puddle of fake blood on the driveway. An art piece that had a life of it’s own.

Birfday / burpday.

It ended quiet enough. Hidden away at the Hideout. Drinking drinks and talking talk. Further proof that Boo knows everyone: I met a boy there, friend of a friend of hers. We raced each other picking up ice cubes with straws used as chop sticks. Smiling wide the whole time. Somewhere in the middle I had that sudden awareness of how I was sitting. That shy nervousness about how close our hands would get. Plans for Wednesday. Or the Wednesday after that. An open invite. A certain rematch. When we said good night he held my hand for a second too long and looked me right in the eye, “It was nice to meet you, Heather.” Stomach knot. Butterflies. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Gun-shy / gushy.

I think this is where I say thanks, kids. For the birthday and for the year. For taking in the Midwestern girl and overlooking my inability to use hip hop slang correctly. For the happy hours gone awry and the ones that didn’t. For being the bright spots in an otherwise dim job. For letting me befriend your friends. For driving me all over this twisty city. And then for driving me all over it again. For giving me a sense of family when mine is so far away. For honest to goodness, no holds barred, without question being there for me when I needed it. For making me feel like the kid sister. For making me feel on top of the world. Y’all are living proof against the idea that Seattlites are cold and aloof. You could melt ice caps. Or boil water. You’ve made me feel right at home.

Aww shucks / awe struck.