bb's b'day

Last night was my roomie's 23rd birthday. We actually have a new roommate as well. A lovely, shiny redheaded, four-legged named Abe. Abe's not too sure he likes me yet, but I'm hoping he'll warm up to me because he's very, very cute. And the supersensor in me wants to touch his shiny coat all the time.

B. gave me one of the biggest honors possible. Despite the wealth of dining-out establishments in Whitesburg (insert sarcasm here) (and, yes, we could have driven to Norton or Hazard or Pikeville), she said that a dinner cooked by moi would be the perfect birthday feast. False humility aside, I really think this decision was fueled by her tiredness from weekend travel.

Still, it was superfun to be the captain of someone's birthday meal. While B. was taking Abe for an extendo walk around Fish Pond Lake (a location named by the Society for Redundancy Association), I was making dinner and setting the table. When she came back, we had dinner and she regailed me with stories of her travels. I regailed her with dim recollections of stories from my 23rd birthday. Then we made fried Angel Food Cake, because let's face it, Angel Food Cake really is too healthy for you, and the last fourth of it is difficult to finish off. The grand finale of the evening was an episode of Six Feet Under. We've been wathcing it steadily on DVD thanks to the Netflix Oracle.

The thing I love about my roommate is that she was entirely satisfied by this birthday. I made the comment that it wasn't dinner and dancing at the Ritz Carlton. She said, eh. At the age of 23, she's already reached that zen place in her life that many of us strive for where you feel peaceful and accomplished and celebratory just eating a blackberry (not punching dates and numbers into one) and laying on a couch, rubbing your foot across your dog's belly.