My Birthday; The Weekend

I realize it's been a while. I would be lying if I said that I was busy because I am never busy. I have no life. I just haven't gotten around to doing it, and not that writing on the blog is a chore, but I never seem to be near the computer and I never seem to want to write.
But now I do. So whoopee for anyone passing by this blog.
Anyways, a week ago I turned 18. HOORAY. Yeah, big whoop.
My ID is still in the mail and only one of my friends is 18 (and she has a baby so she's not exactly available to drink whenever she wants). It was not a big thing. I didn't have a party (that's in a couple weeks, and there IS a reason) and I didn't get any presents. I'm becoming an adult (though technically I've been a woman for six years now - ladies, you know what I mean).
There was a sense of loss on my birthday. For the entirety of my life, I had been under this blanket of childhood and if I did something wrong, I rarely had to face the consequences. Of course, just because I turned 18 doesn't mean I'm suddenly mature. That's been coming for a long time now. It sucks, being mature. I still have a ways to go.
Now about the weekend.
On Thursday, my mom and Derek offered to buy me some alcohol. I asked Laura (ha ha, oh Laura) and she suggested Kahlua. I thought I shouldn't ask for any of the hard liquor I've had so as to avoid suspicion, and I had heard that Kahlua was good. Turns out I don't like it. Turns out I can handle the taste of Royal Reserve (that's right, I said it) better than Kahlua. But I'm not here to slander.
On Friday, my mom bought a bottle of vodka and I was satisfied. That night, after 9 shots (from a shot glass that my 14 year old sister bought me in Mexico) I was drunk. It felt so weird, being drunk in front of my mother. Every other time I had had alcohol and she was in the vicinity, I had played it cool (and was believable if that sounds believable). But then again, I thought it was weird when Derek offered Touer a beer when they were watching football. Hmmm. Maybe I'm a prude.
Sunday was Easter and Laura and I made a fantastic dinner. It was sort of stressful at the beginning when I spilled the water the potatoes were soaking in all over the floor. Laura spilled the second pot of potato water. Then as the potatoes were cooking, they boiled over (though many, many years of being in the kitchen through holidays had taught me to expect something like it - it happened every time - I had not anticipated it. Perhaps I had thought it wouldn't happen to me.) and the stove was covered with water. This was, of course, just as we had to take the ham out of the oven.
But all in all, the dinner was good.
The turkey was moist.
The ham was scrumptious.
The potatoes - oh lord those potatoes - were fantastic.
I'm running out of synonyms off the top of my head. You get the picture.
I also saw "The Prestige" which was another one of those really really really really cause-you-to-repeat-a-word-so-many-times-you-just-wanna-barf kind of good movies. Tristan and Isolde. Lucky number Sleven.
So many good movies.
But I really like the smart ones with good acting, ones that are aesthetically pleasing (set and actors) and have a good story line. That's one thing I hate to see happen to good actors/great sets/etc. It's embarrassing as a fan of the written word that people can pump out crap and it does well. I hate it. I hate it.
But I love the movies above. They are awesome and they also make me sad. This is mostly because when I watch a movie like Lucky Number Sleven (not so much the other two since I don't really know about magic or the middle ages) and the story is so fracking good I know that I would never have been able to think of something anywhere close to it, let alone write something that good.
I know I just bashed bad writers, but I think I'm mediocre, so long live the mediocre writers. If you didn't have them, how would you be able to tell which are the really good writers? **Ahem**Zadie Smith**Ahem**