Happy (late) Birthday, Hillary!

Sooooooo…her birthday was almost a week ago.  I did celebrate with her and wish her “Happy Birthday!” on the actual date.  I’m a wonderful friend but a lazy blogger.  

Hillary is turning 20-something!!!!  The specific age isn’t necessarily noteworthy – better to focus on the fact that she was born and has survived another year of living.  It has been quite the year.  Then again, she is quite the woman.

Hillary, Hillary, Hillary.  A sheer tornado of hair, dog, clothing, social justice, and intelligence.  We met while working at the Carolina Brewery, and I instantly disliked her.  I genuinely cannot remember why.  I also can’t remember why she came to my apartment to help me make homemade Playboy one evening.  But she did.  And I stopped being so mean.  Now, we are friends.  Funny how that works out.

Lines.jpgIt wouldn’t be a trip down South without some craft brews.

I traveled south last weekend to help her celebrate the milestone in true Carolina fashion. (Everyone in Virginia refers to North Carolina as “Carolina” – as if to suggest that there is only one.  I have taken up the habit.)  I was in Durham for approximately ten minutes before we headed to Lonerider Brewery for a few rounds.  We eventually peeled ourselves away from the beautiful weather and wooden benches to get ready for a fantastic dinner at Five Star in Raleigh.  We played our hand at being youthful ladies by going out after dinner but only made it to one “club” (I saw a married man showing off pictures of his newborn baby at the bar…the fact that I wanted to shake him by the shoulders was proof to me that I am too old for that scene) before we went to a respectable place with outdoor seating and an appropriately long list of whiskeys.  After delightful conversation while sipping liquor, the only thing left to do was to go in search of a pizza so large that it could not fit in a standard vehicle.  Seriously, it was so large we had to put it in the trunk of the Uber (which was greeeeeat considering he was already peeved at us for being five drunk girls instead of four).  It was full of cheese and pepperoni and was exactly what the birthday girl wanted.  All in all, it was a great evening.  Especially for an old gal that doesn’t get out much.

All of that fun made for a borderline miserable drive home the next day which was only brightened by a visit to Carrie’s house for breakfast scones and a living room of sweet puppies at home.

Happy Birthday, Hillary.  Your friendship continues to be one of the greatest parts of my life, including our almost daily talks while I commute.  I adore how we end our phone calls with “miss you love you bye!” and the fact that you drive to Virginia to visit me.  Thank you for reminding me that it is okay to ask people to visit me because even the best road warriors need a break.  And while I agree with your sound logic that having three (hypothetical) baby showers is sheer madness, I still wouldn’t bet money on it not happening.  You are simply amazing in a way that isn’t simple at all.  Don’t worry about the future (easier said than done, especially coming out of the mouth of a chronic worrier) – you have always managed life with a graceful wobble that lands you on your feet a few steps farther ahead than where you started.  I don’t worry about you (and I’ve just admitted that I worry about a ton so that it saying a lot!).  I’m just glad that I have you by my side for the future.  And I can’t wait to invest in Jimmy Buffet themed retirement with you!  (Latitude Margaritaville – it’s real and you are intrigued.)  

Also, I’ve always been jealous of your hair.  There.  I said it.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s