My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie I’m trying to perfect my shiv carving skills. No, Mom, not Shiva carving. Shiv carving. You know. Like the makeshift knifes that dudes use in prison. I'm thinking of taking that broken glass pane - you know, the one the neighborhood boys broke during their game of baseball - and turning it into a beautiful weapon. Just carve that shard into a blade and make it a nice wooden and fabric wrapped handle. No, Mom, you do not have to call the police on me. I just have strange hobbies, okay? I mean, think about it. Cavemen made their own daggers and knives from rocks. Rocks! Like flint and limestone and shit like that. They used the resources they had available. So why can't I take that crooked beam from the bunk bed we never use anymore and transform it into a beautiful mini javelin? There is no need to freak out, Mom. Hmmm, maybe once I get my glass dagger finished, I can make it a nice scabbard. Ooh! And for a dual knife, I can always fin...

Welp. It's official: I turned twenty-nine yesterday. I had a lovely day with the wifey - we got milkshakes downtown, she made me dinner, we watched Grace and Frankie, we ate storebought cupcakes. I got some nice gifts from both my wife and my in-laws, and I'm planning on seeing my parents and my brother on Sunday for more celebration. I obviously don't feel any different at twenty-nine than I did at twenty-eight, or twenty-seven. It's wonderful to think about how far I've come, though. I've been together with my wife for more than seven years, married for over a year and a half. I've completed my first year as a public high school teacher, as well as my first year of induction (out of two, in order to clear my credential). I've continued to create, add to, and revise writing projects. I've gone to the gym more and shed a lot of weight. I got my teeth cleaned for the first time in almost three years! I feel a lot lighter (literally and figuratively)...

Sea Relic by Belinda Roddie She was twenty-nine, and the barnacles had begun to form.

I tried to trust him. I tried to believe him. He told me he was set for life. He told me that his job was stable, that he'd quit drinking, that he was paying attention to his friends and family again. I let him back into my life because I thought he'd gotten better. Not cured, but rehabilitated. I trusted  him on that. But three weeks later, he was unemployed. He came home with a bottle of gin and drank the whole thing in one sitting. Then he closed himself up in the spare bedroom and didn't talk to me for two days.

This Birthday by Belinda Roddie This birthday was a nice one, all in all; it didn't need to be extravagant for me to be happy and have a ball, and the festivities were hardly scant. I enjoyed the weather and gladly sipped a milkshake with my wife beside the bay, and after we had made a couple trips to the store, she and I had dinner made, which we consumed while watching a fun show on Netflix. The presents also were lovely that I received, and don't worry, I know I'll have to send out thank you cards. For me, a quiet birthday was all that I'd need, with love sent from both friends and family.

We celebrated Emma's 40th birthday at the Maxim Motel, where we snuck in cold bottles of bubbly and a box full of doughnuts we had snagged from the nearby grocery store. It had been two weeks since Emma had left her abusive bastard of a husband, so she was definitely doing most of the drinking. After we sang to her, she sang back to us, though she decided on a jazz standard than just repeating that obnoxious birthday tune.