Well, that could have gone better

So yesterday was my birthday, and while I wasn’t expecting fireworks and a marching band due to COVID, I did think we’d have a nice day with a nice cake and a nice dinner.

The day started out with Ramón presenting me with my present, a set of bread lames for cutting slits in bread loaves before baking so that they don’t rip. I am delighted and kiss him, then get up and run out to get the makings for a really great lemon cake with homemade lemon curd between the layers. Upon my return home I disinfected everything and showered as usual, at which point I saw a text message that a bouquet of flowers had been delivered and should be retrieved from the doorstep. I didn’t see any flowers but I go out and double-check the porch — no flowers.

I check the text message a little closer and see that the flowers have been delivered about five miles away to an address very similar to mine (same street number, slightly different street name). Since we get mail for these people at least three times a year, I wasn’t surprised but was somewhat miffed as I knew my sister was the one who sent the flowers. I reply with a text saying, “Yeah, you delivered them to the wrong address” and hoped the mistake would be rectified.

And then I get a second text message — from the people at this other address. Apparently my phone number was on the message tag and they pinged me to say, “Yeah, we have your flowers, wanna come pick them up?” Oooookay. So I get dressed, put my second clean mask on for the day and head out … only to realize as I pull up in front of their house that 1) I have no idea what the viral load in their house is, and 2) I cannot disinfect a bouquet. Shit. I pull my phone back out and tell them to keep the bouquet with my compliments, and go back home. Put SECOND set of clothes and mask into the wash and clean up again.

By this point my knee has started complaining about the humidity, the amount of movement I have been engaging in, and to be quite frank my PMS kicks in. I decide, “Fuck it” to making the cake, I’ll make it the next day. At which point my sister calls to find out what I thought about the bouquet. I explain the contretemps and thank her for her thoughtfulness (it had balloons and everything, wah!), and she agrees that I should have left the bouquet with the other people since there was no way to bring it in safely. We have a nice chat and make tentative plans to get together in March or April next year.

My PMS has gotten worse, plus I’m feeling hot and really tired. I slog through making chicken Alfredo, wondering at the monster chicken breasts I wound up getting from Kroger. Dinner finished, I realize I am not hungry at all and go upstairs to take a nap. I wake up at 9:30 PM, feeling moderately better as well as moderately hungry.

The Alfredo is not a culinary triumph. The chicken breasts turn out to be stringy and unpleasant-tasting, and I stop eating after half a bowl, throwing out the rest of it. I’ve clearly been spoiled, getting chicken and other meat from a local butcher, but this meal confirms that going there was a good choice. After that, I watch a couple of episodes of GBBO until bedtime, toss and turn until 3 AM, get up to watch some Jack Whitehouse comedy specials, then go back to bed.

So, yeah, not the greatest of birthdays. But to be honest it’s hardly the worst, either. A couple of minor annoyances, unpleasant chicken, and a hormone storm, no biggie. And I did get a nifty set of bread lames, a pretty birthday bouquet (at a distance), and a slew of best wishes from people on social media, so that made the day great.

About nicolacameronwrites

Nicola Cameron has had some interesting adventures in her life -- ask her sometime about dressing up as Tietania, Queen of the Bondage Fairies. When not writing, she wrangles cats, makes dolls of dubious and questionable identity, and thanks almighty Cthulhu that she doesn’t have to work for a major telecommunications company any more (because there’s BDSM, and then there’s just plain torture...).

Posted on July 29, 2020, in Personal. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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