I tend to forget things. I can only remember a birthday if it happens to fall on my half-birthday. Or maybe if it happens to be a major holiday, but even then it’s not guaranteed, because it is competing with other equally important events like dressing up as a slutty vampire or eating chocolate bunnies. And anniversaries, forget about it. I can’t remember those out of self-defense. I already bought you a wedding present, went to your wedding, bought a dress to march in it, all without realizing that it was a lifetime subscription for “congratulations.” I have to forget about these, because if I stay too close, I’ll have to remember your kid’s birthdays, too–and their major achievements. Like their first Tummy Time or lost tooth. And honestly, I can’t keep up. I can barely remember to leave the house wearing pants. Birthdays and anniversaries are a slippery slope that I just can’t manage in these heels. It’s just too dangerous.
But this time I forgot something I didn’t even know I was supposed to remember. This one took me completely by surprise. And it happened while I was home this past weekend, visiting my parents.
“Honey, do you know what today is?” My mom asked.
“Yes, you reminded me three times yesterday. It’s senior citizen Zumba class at the community center, and I already told you, I’ll go.”
“No, besides that.”
“A special Tuesday. It’s your brother’s birthday!”
Now, this would be all well and good, if in fact, I had a brother. I don’t. I have a spastic stepbrother without the benefits — there’s no Xbox, junk food in the house, or potential hot friends. There’s just forced exercise, and a trail of poop.
My “brother” is Wilson, my parents’ Miniature Australian Labradoodle. And this week, the boy turned one.
So for his birthday on Tuesday Wilson got a special treat- a dog cookie that looks like a birthday cake, which I imagine was a delicious dessert.
But not nearly as delicious as my Italian leather sandals, which apparently, he enjoyed as his main course:
I was annoyed as hell, and I swear he did it just to piss me off. Which, I’m told, is what little brothers do.
Happy Birthday, Little Shit.
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