Happy birthday to me!
Last year, my housemates and I were all really into Fudgie the Whale Carvel ice cream cakes. The day of my birthday, I realized I had forgotten to exlicitly tell my housemates that I wanted one. So I got off the train a few stops early (yeah, 168th street was south of my apartment- what?) just so I could go to Carvel and pick myself up a Fudgie.
I asked the lady at the counter if she had any Fudgies because there weren’t any left in the freezers. She looked nervous. Was I sure I wanted a Fudgie? Yes, I said. It was my birthday and I was picking one up. She said there weren’t any Fudgies, and that I probably didn’t want a Fudgie anyway. This was a hard anti-Fudgie sell.
At this point, I thought of two possible scenarios: the first was that there was a guy crouched under the counter holding a gun to the cashier, and she was trying to save my life by getting me out of the store. The other, less likely possibility, was that my friends were so cool that they had already gotten me a Fudgie, and the lady was trying to dissuade me from double-Fudging.
Did my housemates come here and get me a Fudgie, I asked? She admitted that they’d been by earlier, but that they’d told her not to tell, on the off-chance that I came in to pick one up.
Long story short, my friends are so amazing- and I am so predictable- that they knew I had forgotten to ask for a Fudgie, and that I would pathetically try to buy myself a birthday cake. Also, there are so few white people in Washington Heights that the lady in Carvel had no problem identifying me as the birthday girl my roommates had described to her.
I walked the rest of the way to my apartment with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. It was a beautiful day; I remember the sun was still out. Even better- I knew that waiting for me at home was a chocolate whale and some of the best friends a girl could ask for to share it with. Fuck yeah.
(photo via loscheiner)