The birthday in the Big Apple that just kept giving

The first week of June always seems to be a transition time in my life. That time of year always marks the end of school, the start of summer, first days of work, moving trips, new rent leases, and.... my birthday! 

I turned 21 somewhere between Wyoming and Ohio, probably on about hour 17 of my mom and I's cross-country trip to move me to the Buckeye State (the first time). I turned 22 two days after moving to Manhattan, Kansas, (the Little Apple). I drank a box of wine on my couch with Stones and went to my favorite college bar via teleconference with some of my dearest friends. I went to work the next day with a headache and wondered if I was really cut out for this whole moving-to-a-new-state-and-being-an-adult thing.

This year, I turned 23 in the other Manhattan, a loooooong way from Kansas. We were working about 100 miles outside New York City on a farm tour and my co-workers treated me to a night out on the town for my birthday.

That was the fanciest birthday dessert I have ever had -- a peanut butter chocolate mousse cake. I very eloquently described it as "chocolate pudding mixed with cake perfectly formed into a pile of goodness with flecks of really fancy, thinly sliced Butterfinger candy in it. With ice cream."

But my favorite part of the whole night wasn't the amazing dessert, or the jalapeno whipped potatoes, or the creamed spinach or the Certified Angus Beef brand Prime dry-aged-to-perfection rib eye... although all those items were fantastic. My favorite part was... the menu.

Thanks, BLT Prime, for loving your customers so much you want to educate them about beef cuts. An educated consumer is a empowered purchaser. Go ahead and empower yourself to love the beefy basics a little more here.

Later that week, I arrived home to Woo-town to this sweet little gift:

I've been in desperate need of new luggage for about two years now. The old set finally became intolerable when I started using a safety pin to try and zip it open and closed. My favorite group of Woo-town friends took pity on the deplorable state of my luggage and got my new set started. They're awesome like that.

Know who else I think is awesome?

Jessica Simpson. I know, everybody thinks she's real, real dumb. Maybe she is. But I have to appreciate a girl who will rock a "Real Women Eat Meat" t-shirt after picking up on Carrie Underwood's ex. And she makes shoes and handbags to die for... and now luggage to love. 

The next day, I got this little treat from Rhinestone Cowgirl: 

If you can't read the note, the jest of it is this: she wanted to buy me a birthday beer, but there happened to be about 1,000 miles between us. So bought six and mailed them instead. That's friendship.

 

Early the next week, Ms M surprised me with orange cake for a belated birthday breakfast. I just finished the last leftover piece day before last. I can't even begin to explain how amazing this super special orange cake is, but if I ever finagle the recipe out of her, I'll share it, and you'll love me (even more) for it.

 

Then THIS week (now a full two weeks after my birthday), DOD finally made good on a promise and made it into a fun little birthday treat. He's been raving about this irresistible ice cream that's made only in the Buckeye State pretty much since the day I moved here.

I really had my doubts that this ice cream could really be that much better than other ice creams. Let's be honest, I'm not exactly known for my refined palate... this is a girl who digs truck stop food and likens a dessert at one of NYC's finest steakhouses to "fancy Butterfingers."

But I must admit... this ice cream was fancy. It was delicious and perfect and amazing. I think I just reached a quota for nice adjectives in one sentence describing something to do with Ohio.  

Well done, Graeter's. You've made a believer out of me.  

Meanwhile, the time between June 3 and June 18 has been filled with balloons, cards and sweet phones calls from friends and family.

Today, I think I finally closed the books on the two-week celebration of turning 23.

I lovingly took the Jessica Simpson tags off my new luggage, stuffed it full and loaded it up in the beefy mini-van. I begrudgingly handed it off to a grumpy man with the TSA at the Cleveland airport. It arrived in Chicago with me this afternoon, scuffed and a little dirty, and I knew the party was over.