how to guarantee a happy birthday
First, you need a plan of the floutable variety. Ours went something like this:
Prior to the Big Day, choose a Big Day Destination.
Turn in at a reasonable hour. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Get up uber-early to feed Maisie.
Eat breakfast, fuel birthday girl with requisite coffee.
Open presents.
Get dressed.
Fill the backpack with day-trip essentials. If we don't have enough gear for a month of interstellar travel, we haven't finished yet.
Pack a picnic lunch.
Depart midmorning; make it home with plenty of time to prepare a special to-be-determined feast.
Unwind from our adventure with a fun movie.
The plan is in place. Only now is it time to engage in some world-class flouting.
We did choose a destination and even hit the not-literal hay earlier than usual. I, however, didn't sleep a wink (which is, unfortunately, not uncommon). Dennie slept, though not well, and stayed in bed an hour or more beyond the time we'd expected to have all eight of our feet out the door. (That is, of course, a combined total. Not one of us exceeds the standard number of appendages assigned to our individual species.) I made sure Maisie was fed bright and early. To prevent potentially deadly bloat, we always wait two-to-three hours after a meal before walking her. With her history of carsickness, it also behooves us to delay at least that long before any kind of road trip. Our pup had eaten, according to plan, but, in the aftermath, that's when the real flouting began. Dennie's coffee and both our breakfasts could only aspire to one day hit the mark as fashionably late. Leisurely, the VIP of the day opened her gifts, and we lounged around--messy-haired and pajama-clad--for hours, occasionally commenting that we should start getting ready, then chuckling the thought away. Again. Before we realized how much of the morning had already gone, it was almost time for lunch. The midday meal was consumed--eventually--followed by some general lazing about because, obviously, Maisie had just eaten again, so we couldn't pop her into the car right away, and subjecting ourselves to any manner of domestic labor felt altogether wrong on such a special occasion. Once we actually deigned to dress, pack, and thoroughly prepare for our midmorning excursion, it was 2:30 in the afternoon, and we'd shared a rare and spectacularly sloth-like morning. Had it not been for the misguided, punctual breakfast of our furry child, we'd have scored a perfect ten on the Floutitude Meter. Still, nine is certainly a respectable score.
Zero regrets. Quality time beats staying on schedule any day of the week--you know, unless the clock is counting down, we're faced with an impossible itinerary of dangerous tasks, and, for some unfathomable reason, we're the only two people in existence who can save the planet before the final tick, tick, tick, boom. This hasn't ever happened, but, if it does, I'll be sure to blog about it. Unless the mission is classified, you understand. Then you'll have to read between the lines. Expect a tragic tale explaining away our prolonged absence, like how it took us nearly a week to check out at the grocery store, because each time the cashier did a price check, everyone within earshot fainted into a vaguely comatose state. A thing like that will really slow the line down, if it weren't actually code for that whole world-saving expedition and the thwarted-apocalypse shindig that's sure to follow.
I do hope that party is BYOB--bring your own beagle. Mine will be here, at the ready, and fed at least two-to-three hours in advance, while her parents procrastinate on getting out of PJs for as long as humanly possible. But I digress...
Despite--and because of--the delays, Dennie's birthday was beautiful, in every possible sense. Vibrant blue skies, snow-capped mountains in the distance, gentle sea breezes, colorful kites, sailboats, and, most importantly, endless smiles all around. The tiny pink faces of cherry blossoms were just starting to peek out from their buds, while long-dormant tulips and daffodils leaned into the sunlight, a few already open, the rest promising to proudly stand in solidarity with their sisters soon. We passed a peaceful afternoon at the harbor, walking around the marina, relaxing at the adjacent park, talking, laughing, savoring the views of the sea and the San Juan Islands on the horizon, and, naturally, taking plenty of pictures. We even watched the maneuvers of a sailing class out on the bay: four boats, each manned by two people, and a surrounding support crew shouting out instructions. It was like synchronized swimming, only with numbered sails and the kind of periodically broken synchronicity you'd expect of beginners. One vessel almost capsized, but with some serious counterbalance--two people leaning off the opposite side--the students managed to bring the boat upright again.
Our hours-long ramble on a pleasant and sunny spring day had been so refreshing, so wonderful that we hated to leave, but we were getting hungry, and we didn't want to make the considerable commute home in the dark. We also weren't keen to cook when dinner was already late, so we stopped for Italian take-out, complete with sinfully rich Zeppoli for dessert, every bit of which permeated the air inside our vehicle with a mouth-watering aroma. Once home, fully satisfied with our adventures--heart, soul, and belly--Maisie trudged over to her bed and dozed off instantly. Dennie and I struggled to keep our own eyes open that evening too, and so, maintaining the spirit of the day, we flouted the last point of the grand plan as well. Instead of a movie, we reunited with our pajamas, queued up a short show, and tucked ourselves into bed shortly thereafter. It had been a series of events destined to deliver guaranteed happiness, because concrete plans come in handy when you're saving the world, but birthdays are best left unscripted...and maybe even just a little bit feral.