Karma, Cautiously

We are now in the Days of Birthday Karma, and with great trepidation I opened my email box today to find an invitation to appear as the keynote speaker of my alma mater's National Honor Society Banquet in May. Good, right?

Or... not. Because this means the following:

1) The standards that Mother of Mercy High School applies to gathering role models have clearly dipped to alarmingly low levels. Was Courtney Love not available?

I have decided I am being presented as a cautionary tale: "You need to take calculus, or this will happen to you."

2) My parents, once convinced that they were now free of any child-related banquets, Track and Field Days, dance recitals, science fairs, soccer parties, or interminable choir concerts, are now right back where they started. I am the auditorium-related gift that just keeps on giving.

Josh The Pilot is also invited, fortunate man. At the moment he is preoccupied with birthday plans, as I told him that I didn't want anything expensive or shiny or even drivable-- I just wanted a surprise. The man has yet to surprise me with anything, other than the shocking news that he likes pool when I had no idea that he liked pool. I blame his utter inability to be anything other than painfully honest. Last year he tried to surprise me when I turned thirty; we were on the phone the night before, and I heard the unmistakable noise of a suitcase closing and zipping.

ME: That was a weird noise. What are you doing?
JTP: ...Arranging... stuff.

And of course, it was little to no shock when he appeared on my doorstep 24 hours later, suitcase in hand. This is a good thing, in a relationship, for I know that he is incapable of cheating. I would find out in about four seconds, not due to any possession of investigative skills on my part, but because I would call him on his cell phone all, "Hey, can you pick up some milk on your way home?" and he'd be like, "OK, I'll stop by the grocery when I leave the In-N-Out Motel."

So it went this year. We descended into the Man Cave to eat dinner last week, both of us balancing trays, and I set mine down on the footlocker which serves as a coffee table. (Like I said... Man Cave.) And sitting atop the footlocker was a piece of paper upon which was written some flight information, along with the following:

"Fletch The Extremist is arriving on Jan. 14. Pick up at IAD after work."

"Oh," I said, holding up the note, "is Fletch coming to town?"

There followed a great deal of empty-box kicking and wall-smacking, because not only was The Pilot furious with himself for leaving a paper trail in plain view, he didn't even think to fling a fully honest, fully believable air traffic control-related excuse, such as the fact that he wished to play a practical joke upon his friend, and route him to, say, Omaha.

But given that today is also the tenth anniversary of this, I am perfectly happy with a lifetime of paper trails.

six monthiversarying at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com