|ME AND MY BRATS, ENJOYING A BIRTHDAY BEVERAGE|
Well actually, I am enjoying a birthday beverage. The other two are showing the kind of restraint that makes me question their parentage.
But this year, she played dirty.
"Look, you old harridan," she said, "you either take me out to dinner to a restaurant of my choosing or I will show everyone that photo of you wearing flats because you had a short boyfriend."
"Name your restaurant," I said, and the next thing you know, the clan was gathering at icky East Side Mario's.
That was Clue Number 1.
After a good 45 minutes, a waitress came by to
The birthday girl demurred. "I don't know if I feel like drinking," she said. On her friggin' birthday!
That was Clue Number 2.
I eventually harangued her into having a peach bellini, and then another. But by the time the second one arrived, she said she'd had enough and was feeling dizzy. The child cannot handle her liquor. That was Clue Number 3.
I hate to see perfectly good liquor go to waste (and there is no other kind of liquor) so I sucked it back and then turned to my younger daughter and saw she wasn't drinking her bellini either.
"Are you gonna..." I began, and she pushed the glass toward me and winked. Which I took to mean, "Knock yourself out. I'm actually enjoying watching you drain every vessel on this table."
I'm making it sound as if the whole evening revolved around liquor, which is untrue-ish. Except that after three hours, I looked at my watch and realized it was almost 9 o'clock.
"Kids, I've gotta run or I'm gonna miss the LCBO," I said, and Firstborn looked at Secondborn in that way they have had since they were tots, that "We are bonded by the tragedy of having a mother who is nuts" way, and Firstborn said, "My god, Muther, is that all you think about is booze?"
And that's when all the clues glued themselves together and hit me like a fist: That is not your child! Someone swapped your child with the illegitmate child of a Benedictine nun!
Which, if you will remember, has happened to me before, when I realized my second-born is not mine either. The horror. The heartbreak. How much of this is one woman supposed to bear?
And these kids wonder why I tipple.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Sigh. That entire story sounds like it was written in the middle of a drunk-up. Click here if you want to read about that time she realized her second kid was actually some Mennonite woman's brat.
Tomorrow: The birthday girl gets a box of delicious man-candy.