Well Abe, They Say It's Your Birthday

As a child playing pretend, I wore slips on my head (which I apparently still do) as a creative prop for characters that included long draping hair. My own bowl cut was insufficient. The council woman liked to keep my hair short in an effort to show off my Scandinavian face which I get from my Pa. (And if you are into links, I've already blogged about that particular aspect of my life right here.)
In those solo play dates (playing pretend was so much more satisfying on my own) I always knew I was bound for something bigger than this place. I was going to grow up one day, grow my hair down to my bra line, and grow out of town. I'd leave the country and become a grateful expatriate.

And yet, here am I.
Same place.
Same country.

Last night Christopher and I were sharing late night desserts with some friends at the local Village Inn. The rubbery mauve seats, the minty wallpaper, the waiter who is working the late shift to pay for his courses in helicopter repair at UVSC and his pregnant girlfriend, didn't compare to the gold gilded dessert houses in Belgium I've tried. But something smelled of charm. And as we laughed about dug out diners we've patronized across the country I was almost glad that God hadn't moved me all about. So, I ordered a Belgian waffle to prove to myself that although the melted fresh chocolate is a good move...

I'm an American, so please pass the butter and the blueberry imitation syrup.

Happy Birthday Presidents!

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