returns of the day
As a day, it wasn’t a good one. I got a happy birthday in the morning, but just that. I opened the birthday box from my parents, to find a bunch of junk I had abandoned (for a reason) in their basement. Well, I was happy to see the wooden cat my brother brought me from Japan many years ago, and I liked one of the two sweaters my mother picked out. I thought it would go well with the pants I had just gotten back from the seamstress, and therefore, one of the few pairs of pants I have that actually fit me. Except that the pants have disappeared. I’ve been cleaning out closests lately and doing a lot of laundry. I would know if the pants were in either place or anywhere in between. I’ve looked all over. I vaguely remember washing the pants, but I don’t remember ironing them. Most likely scenario: they blew off the clothes line, and into oblivion.
To stop myself wasting more time obsessing about the pants, I took the buka out to the swings, where the other mothers were loud and annoying and throwing their cigarrette butts down on the ground all around the swings, some still smoldering. I was disgusted. I thought, should I say something, or leave? I left.
I went to buy birthday cookies to take to work. I got some extras for home -- for the babysitter, really, since she had brought sweets for us when she had her birthday last week. The husband started to eat one and noticed something dark on it. Whereas I would have just left it alone, especially on somebody’s birthday, he went off to get a magnifying glass -- to discover, sure enough, that the “something dark” was a leg, most likely a cockroach leg, baked right into the soft golden surface. He demanded that I take the cookies back. He made a big deal of it, refusing to throw the offending cookie away. I said we probably eat crap like that all the time, just forget it. I’m not taking them back and I’m not getting into a fight on my birthday. I was disgusted. By all of it. Again.
I left the cookies on the counter for the babysitter, and I took the other box to work, where I got lots of kisses and happy birthdays. The cookies were consumed without incident. The incident took place later, when I entered the worst class in the world. I dread facing this particular group of students every Tuesday, but this week, they must have decided to assign new meaning to their designation, since it was my birthday and all: they set off a stink bomb.
I got home, 10 o’clock at night. There was a present waiting for me, and a cake. I had had my doubts. I didn’t understand the suspense, why he would make me think all day that my birthday would remain unacknowledged and then “celebrate” it at a time when I would have the least time to enjoy it. (I go to bed by 10:30.) It’s okay. I made my wish, for something forgettable and vague.
I don’t care about birthdays. I have nothing else to wish for.
Except my pants.
To stop myself wasting more time obsessing about the pants, I took the buka out to the swings, where the other mothers were loud and annoying and throwing their cigarrette butts down on the ground all around the swings, some still smoldering. I was disgusted. I thought, should I say something, or leave? I left.
I went to buy birthday cookies to take to work. I got some extras for home -- for the babysitter, really, since she had brought sweets for us when she had her birthday last week. The husband started to eat one and noticed something dark on it. Whereas I would have just left it alone, especially on somebody’s birthday, he went off to get a magnifying glass -- to discover, sure enough, that the “something dark” was a leg, most likely a cockroach leg, baked right into the soft golden surface. He demanded that I take the cookies back. He made a big deal of it, refusing to throw the offending cookie away. I said we probably eat crap like that all the time, just forget it. I’m not taking them back and I’m not getting into a fight on my birthday. I was disgusted. By all of it. Again.
I left the cookies on the counter for the babysitter, and I took the other box to work, where I got lots of kisses and happy birthdays. The cookies were consumed without incident. The incident took place later, when I entered the worst class in the world. I dread facing this particular group of students every Tuesday, but this week, they must have decided to assign new meaning to their designation, since it was my birthday and all: they set off a stink bomb.
I got home, 10 o’clock at night. There was a present waiting for me, and a cake. I had had my doubts. I didn’t understand the suspense, why he would make me think all day that my birthday would remain unacknowledged and then “celebrate” it at a time when I would have the least time to enjoy it. (I go to bed by 10:30.) It’s okay. I made my wish, for something forgettable and vague.
I don’t care about birthdays. I have nothing else to wish for.
Except my pants.
posted by soap at
9:30 AM
4 Comments:
Happy Birthday S!!
I typically have horrible birthdays, but this last one was nice. Apparently you got my bad birthday karma. I'm so very sorry! And about the pants--I know how frustrating that can be. Very much sucks.
You, of all people, my friend, deserve to wish for much more than vague and forgettable. If it were me, I'd wish for a square car in a VA drive way, to start. Happy B day my friend. :P
Any chance of that one coming true? And an embarrassing non-hug through a window?
Thanks sweeties, all of you. Still no pants, but no more stink bombs either. I told the boss about that one, by the way, and his answer was "You have to expect some things." Very helpful.
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