(It's September 6. Holla pimp-right-around-a-holiday-weekend birthday-goodness. That's right. I'm saying my birthday falls on a day that's probably better than yours.* WHAT YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?) This year I'm spending said High Holy Day (or High Hayley Day, whatwhat) (not THAT kind of high) camping in a freaking treehouse and canoeing around blissfully.
I have been squeeing about this for months, it feels like. And why shouldn't I? It's camping in a treehouse. I've been a supporter of treehouses all my life. (Well, I mean, I'm not a tree. The trees are the real supporters of treehouses I guess. Technically.)
Aw, look at little 13-year-old me, building my own treehouse with pallets [that were trash-picked and therefore probably covered in chemical debris from god-knows-what, ohmygod every time I see a Pinterest item about furniture made from pallets I cringe. CRINGE.]. I chopped up the wooden slide from the swingset for that sucker without permission, but whatever, nobody had used that slide in forever. You're welcome, slide, for giving you a slightly longer life. I think I had the book A Kids' Guide to Building Forts out in near-constant rotation from the library. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the home-improvement section where that and other types of books were located.
The people who bought that house promptly tore down that treehouse according to neighborhood sources. I don't doubt it. The people who bought it had actually asked US to tear it down prior to moving so their sweet honeychildren wouldn't get hurt. (And maybe because it was kind of maybe an eyesore.) My parents had the sense not to, in addition to making their teenager move two states away during formative high school years, also tear down the treehouse she crafted. Thanks, parents. (Sincerely. Thank. You. The angry-crying that would have happened at being told to tear it down myself would have been EPIC. Epic, I tell you. It was really a good choice for the nation.)
I used to lay on the top pallet looking up into the trees for long spans of time. It remains one of the most lazy-comfortable situations I can imagine for relaxing outside. Hence, SO STOKED for my treehouse camping. TREEHOUSE IMA BE IN YOU. GIRD THY LIMBS.
On an unrelated note to the treehouses but related note to the birthday stuff, I put together a list of possible birthday wants for Patrick to peruse, because I am on the Internet all day and so the things I want tend to be Very Specific and Not Things You'd Know Just By Hanging Out With Me Except Maybe You Would But Probably Not. And in looking at the final list, I feel....awesome. These things sum up the person that is me right now, and I think that person is hilarious.
If I actually get a Supervelma embroidered Kanye West Tweet for my birthday, I will be the happiest lady. Twee shirts and stamps and necklaces all pale in comparison to the possibility of that tweet. (Note to Patrick is he's reading this: I will in fact forgive you if I don't get the water bottle responsibility Tweet. Maybe**.)
*Unless it falls on the first day of school. Or is the cutoff birthday/age date for an activity (like starting school). Whatever, it still rocks.