My birthday was a bust this year.
To be fair, my parents gave me a cash-filled birthday card at my request. And Granny Virgie bought me a heart-shaped locket engraved with the letter “G.”
Yet two folks forgot the joy of gift-giving on April 13.
“It’s my birthday,” I said to my newsroom buddy, Dylan Shawn Wilson, as he arrived to work that Wednesday.
“I know,” he grinned. And then he turned toward his computer screen, where his day’s work awaited him.
“Well,” I sighed, simultaneously tapping my fingers on his cubicle wall. “Where’s my present?”
After a moment’s silence, Dylan responded with a “Hmmm ...”
And that was it.
I returned to the advertising department, sulking as I slumped into my swivel chair. And while I should have resumed my sales calls, I dialed Dylan’s extension instead.
“Yes?” he answered, the sound of his computer’s keyboard clicking in the background.
“So, you really didn’t buy me a birthday gift?” I asked, motioning my sales colleagues into my crowded cubicle.
“No,” Dylan snickered, followed by a dumbfounded: “Did you expect me to?”
“Dylan!” cackled one of my co-workers, humored by his typical male response.
“Hey, am I on speaker phone?” my birthday adversary asked.
Now, that’s about the time my boss approached the cubicle gathering. And that’s when my co-workers scurried to their desks, deserting me.
“Uh … uhm,” I stuttered, ending the conversation.
As I resumed my sales calls, I plotted ways to punish my former Dispatch friend. In fact, I made this my birthday mission, scribbling threats in the margins of news pages and ad proofs. Despite my schemes, including a swift kick to his rear, Dylan responded with ambivalence.
“You haven’t heard the end of this,” I vowed to him as I backed out of our Pettigrew Street parking lot at 5 p.m.
On the drive home, I decided that Dylan wouldn’t ruin my birthday, even though he’d dodged buying me a gift.
And so, I smiled when my sister Wendy greeted me at home with a “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” I said, noticing her empty hands. “Where’s my present?”
“You don’t get one this year!” Wendy laughed.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” she replied. “You didn’t give me anything for mine!”
“That’s not true,” I frowned.
“Maybe not,” she thought, recalling the festive door wreath I’d given her when she turned 37 years old. “But it was two weeks late.”
“Now girls,” Mama interrupted. “Let’s not fight. This is a family gathering.”
At that moment, Mama pulled forth a frozen, frosting-coated delight – a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.
“Yay!” I cheered as Mama served me a slice of my favorite dessert.
And that’s when Wendy committed an infraction most folks would consider unforgivable.
“Let me cut my own piece,” she said, grabbing the butcher knife from Mama’s hand. And with that, Wendy carved a slice that spanned the width of that Dairy Queen ice cream cake. And then she scraped the cake’s edges, claiming the whipped frosting for herself.
“Wendy!” I screamed as she smeared pink frosting onto her plate. “You’ve ruined my birthday!”
“I can’t help it,” she whined, licking the sticky sugar from her fingers. “It’s the best part of the cake.”
A sisterly squabble ensued over that Dairy Queen ice cream cake until Mama mandated a cease-fire.
“Girls, you’re acting just like children,” she scolded both of us. “You need to grow up.”
The party ended soon thereafter.
And so, I was cheated out of two gifts and a birthday cake this year. While Dylan made amends by buying my lunch the next day, Wendy has yet to give me anything. At this point, though, she’s probably forgotten all about my birthday – and last week for that matter.
That’s to be expected of a much older sister.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Making the best of a real birthday bust
To be fair, my parents gave me a cash-filled birthday card at my request. And Granny Virgie bought me a heart-shaped locket engraved with the letter “G.”
Yet two folks forgot the joy of gift-giving on April 13.
“It’s my birthday,” I said to my newsroom buddy, Dylan Shawn Wilson, as he arrived to work that Wednesday.
“I know,” he grinned. And then he turned toward his computer screen, where his day’s work awaited him.
“Well,” I sighed, simultaneously tapping my fingers on his cubicle wall. “Where’s my present?”
After a moment’s silence, Dylan responded with a “Hmmm ...”
And that was it.
I returned to the advertising department, sulking as I slumped into my swivel chair. And while I should have resumed my sales calls, I dialed Dylan’s extension instead.
“Yes?” he answered, the sound of his computer’s keyboard clicking in the background.
“So, you really didn’t buy me a birthday gift?” I asked, motioning my sales colleagues into my crowded cubicle.
“No,” Dylan snickered, followed by a dumbfounded: “Did you expect me to?”
“Dylan!” cackled one of my co-workers, humored by his typical male response.
“Hey, am I on speaker phone?” my birthday adversary asked.
Now, that’s about the time my boss approached the cubicle gathering. And that’s when my co-workers scurried to their desks, deserting me.
“Uh … uhm,” I stuttered, ending the conversation.
As I resumed my sales calls, I plotted ways to punish my former Dispatch friend. In fact, I made this my birthday mission, scribbling threats in the margins of news pages and ad proofs. Despite my schemes, including a swift kick to his rear, Dylan responded with ambivalence.
“You haven’t heard the end of this,” I vowed to him as I backed out of our Pettigrew Street parking lot at 5 p.m.
On the drive home, I decided that Dylan wouldn’t ruin my birthday, even though he’d dodged buying me a gift.
And so, I smiled when my sister Wendy greeted me at home with a “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” I said, noticing her empty hands. “Where’s my present?”
“You don’t get one this year!” Wendy laughed.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” she replied. “You didn’t give me anything for mine!”
“That’s not true,” I frowned.
“Maybe not,” she thought, recalling the festive door wreath I’d given her when she turned 37 years old. “But it was two weeks late.”
“Now girls,” Mama interrupted. “Let’s not fight. This is a family gathering.”
At that moment, Mama pulled forth a frozen, frosting-coated delight – a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.
“Yay!” I cheered as Mama served me a slice of my favorite dessert.
And that’s when Wendy committed an infraction most folks would consider unforgivable.
“Let me cut my own piece,” she said, grabbing the butcher knife from Mama’s hand. And with that, Wendy carved a slice that spanned the width of that Dairy Queen ice cream cake. And then she scraped the cake’s edges, claiming the whipped frosting for herself.
“Wendy!” I screamed as she smeared pink frosting onto her plate. “You’ve ruined my birthday!”
“I can’t help it,” she whined, licking the sticky sugar from her fingers. “It’s the best part of the cake.”
A sisterly squabble ensued over that Dairy Queen ice cream cake until Mama mandated a cease-fire.
“Girls, you’re acting just like children,” she scolded both of us. “You need to grow up.”
The party ended soon thereafter.
And so, I was cheated out of two gifts and a birthday cake this year. While Dylan made amends by buying my lunch the next day, Wendy has yet to give me anything. At this point, though, she’s probably forgotten all about my birthday – and last week for that matter.
That’s to be expected of a much older sister.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Making the best of a real birthday bust
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