Leave now and go by Woodrow's place and wish him a happy birthday. Make sure your comment is polite, friendly and conveys a proper sense of appreciation for the specialness of his blog and the momentousness of turning 30, which he is. Today.
Now that you are back, read the following:
About a month ago, I sent a small cardboard box out to my Woodrow. I made him socks for his Oklahoman feet just because... ok I didn't really have a reason. The great spirit made me do it.
So anyway a few weeks later, I was surprised to find not one, but two package slips taped to my mailbox. Both were marked with my real name and then in parenthesis: NINA?
I opened the first box and found in it several fun and surprising items:
Venison jerky made from a deer shot by Woodrow, sliced up by Woodrow, marinated by Woodrow, and placed in a dehydrating machine by Woodrow - and thereafter bagged and mailed by Woodrow. In a bag with my name on it.
I was also delighted to receive three new things to read, one of which is a copy of Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat, complete with bent corners.
Imagine my euphoric swoon when I discovered, tucked up against the side of the box, this:
I am sure you all know that the beer went right into the freezer so I could crack it open and get gloriously half-drunk. Right there in the middle of the afternoon.
Next, I discovered some items that puzzled me. There were are 1500 of these in the box:
So was I, until I opened the other box. Holy crap.
If you think I swooned when I saw the beer, just imagine the delirium caused by this magnificent gift. I opened this here gun, drank the beer (newly cooled by the freezer) and proceeded to shred the can with live ammunition. Then I shot up some old magazines, a pair of old running shoes, and why, just the other day, I shot the dead leaves off a houseplant.
I am a happy woman.
I have told a few people about my gun and I find the response is mixed. My dad, who has never touched a gun in his life, instantly said "You'll shoot your eye out, kid." My two best climbing friends looked at me with compassion and understanding and then gently suggested that, well, even though I haven't held up very well in the last few months, I still had a lot to live for. Perhaps it wasn't quite time to commit self harm.
I haven't talked to P about this yet, but I know what she'd say. She would say, "Yo, you should totes have me over for a shooting party." Right, P?
My sister was eerily silent for a half a second. Then she said, and said, "Yo, that's so awesome. You should totally make out with him."
And then I had to explain that he is an imaginary friend, a person who lives in my computer. A vapor, practically. And she doesn't get it. And I don't blame her, because I don't either.
One minute, I want to put on an apron and fix him some eggs. The next minute I want to h*ump his leg. Then I won't think about him for a whole day or two, but when I do I'll be thinking how fun it would be if I could set him up with P and then I could find some idjit to boyfriend me and we could all go out on double dates. Never mind that P already has an excellent boyfriend. And then the geography confuses those plans and I spend an hour or so drawing little hearts in the margins of my notebook. And then I go shoot more stuff and try to figure out, again, which one of my friends to set him up with. You know, when he happens to be in New York. (He has no business here, I am pretty sure). Other times I want to give him is vitamins and scrub him behind his ears and remind him to floss. I want to bake him cookies and fold his laundry and when he tells me his boy has fallen off the swings and bumped his head, my heart cracks a little. And then I am back to scrambling eggs and the great spirit tells me to knit more socks. I also get a little snappish if other girls leave flirty comments on his blog. As if they have any clue how special he is. Thou shalt not molesteth my Woodrow! How dare they? Really.
Woodrow, I internet love you, which I guess means I love you just about as much as girl can love a guy she has never met. On the internet.
Happy Birthday, honey.