Birthday miss (a fiction)

      My dad doesn't know my birthday.

     When I was eighteen I moved out of my parents' house. On each successive birthday my mom would call, usually after dinner, and we would chat about my day and my plans for the night. She would eventually hand the phone to my dad, who would say, "Happy birthday, darling!" We would go one additional round before hanging up.
     I didn't think twice about that order of operations, it was the birthday routine. That changed when my parents separated and then divorced.

     
    The first year after the divorce, Dad forgot my birthday. I thought, oh, he's really torn up and in pain. I'll give him a call. I did. Our conversation was focused on him, his new girlfriend, new living arrangements, and new life. At the end of the call he thanked me for checking in with him. It made me feel good. It only occurred to me later that he still hadn't remembered my birthday. I asked my siblings, "Did Dad remember your birthday this year?" They all said, "Yes!" like it was a sacrilege to have asked.
      Huh. Okay.

     Over the next eight years, Dad either forgot my birthday or assigned it a new date. He would call a month before, "Happy birthday, darling," or three months after, "Happy birthday, darling." It was as if my birthday were attached to his winter sense memory and rounding it up to the season was normal. Now everyone in the family noticed. I talked with him about it. My siblings talked with him about it. Dad made excuses. He said, maybe it was because I was the youngest, or because my birthday is so close to Christmas and other dates, or because he was just getting old. In the end he said he would do better. 
      I asked my mom if Dad used to know when I was born. "Was he even there?" I asked.
     "Oh, he was there," she said as though she wished he had not been. She huffed into the phone. "I can't explain your father's oddities, honey. What I can tell you is he hasn't remembered your birthday for a long time. It was that way well before the divorce." She offered no further explanation.
     Huh. Okay.

     The next year I married a thoughtful man named David, whose birthday is in October. Dad started sending David on-time birthday cards with a check for $100. And then he started including a second check in the card for $50 which read: For Sylvie's birthday.

     I called Dad the second year it happened and asked him, "What the fuck?"

     He laughed and said, "Oh geez. I'm sorry, honey. I must not have been paying attention to the amount. I'll get it right one of these times."

     I said, "It's not about the money, Dad! You've been forgetting my birthday for years and now you're lumping it in with David's? Is it ignorance or a deliberate slight? I'm starting to hate my birthday because of you." He was silent in a way that let me know he was hurt and pouting. I softened and said, "Why can't you just put it on the calendar?"
     "You're right. I'll put it on the calendar. And I'll ask your brother to call and remind me."
     "Dad, why do you only forget my birthday?" I felt defeated asking this question.

     "Oh, I don't know, darling. We've been over this. It's so close to other important dates..."

     I still think that was the worst answer possible.
    Dad and I have not talked about his inability to remember my birthday since that conversation, but he still doesn't remember. My uncle's close birthday has been his excuse for the last three years.

    My birthday is next week. So it was no surprise when Dad called today to wish me a happy birthday.

     He said, "Happy birthday, darling!"

     I said, "Hi, Dad. My birthday is next week."

    "Oh, geez. Today must be your uncle's birthday. I always think of his birthday. You know, he was so important to me."

     "Yeah, Dad. I know."

    "Ha ha ha. You know what I mean. I guess I need to change your birthday in my calendar app."

     "Yeah. I think you said that last year."

    "You're probably right. I'll do it right after I get off the phone with you." He laughed again. It sounds embarrassed and uneasy to me. The laugh petered out and he said, "Well, it's really cold up here and the wind is blowing. It's probably good for the skiers because ... " I stopped listening. After the weather report he asked me about my birthday plans.
     I said, "I don't know what we're doing yet, Dad. It's next week. Thanks for the call, but I gotta go."

    I'm not angry that he doesn't know my birthday. I'm not even curious to know why anymore. My feelings are at a distance, just out of reach. That's what I think about when I think of my birthday.

Led to this blog post

On my drive home from work today I heard a portion of Fresh Air! with musical guest Mark Mulcahy, which led me to read this article, which reminded me that there was a television show, The Adventures of Pete and Pete, that was always on in dorm rooms when I was a freshman in college, which reminded me of Veronica Mars for some reason, which led me to a do a cast between two titles search on imdb.com which turned up Geoff Pierson (how could I have forgotten?), which alerted me to the fact that I have not watched the last season of Dexter and probably never will. The cast search also revealed that Patricia Hearst was an actor on both shows, which made me think of Drunk History, and I remembered that Jason Ritter was in at least one episode, and you know, he is always good, so I watched the Atlanta episode of Drunk History while eating dinner ... and wrote this.

Read, play, listen, watch, enjoy.

Comedy Central

Rolling Appalachian mountains framed by vertical tree trunks ... includes a few bears

Makeup

     I am standing in the makeup aisle at the drug store, blinking beneath the bright lights, staring blankly at the choices. I pace, lean down, and squint at the labels. There are too many plastic tubes, too many colors for lips and eyelids and eyelashes. This is a foreign place. I don’t read this language. I don’t know these words. I have been persuaded by some motherly, grandmotherly, societal advice to be here and “look my best”. I am susceptible to these voices—I drift toward them and away from myself.

     I pick out a shade of lipstick and lip-gloss. I start shaking and rush to grab a silver tube of mascara before I lose my nerve. I buy all three—hiding my eyes from the cashier—and hurry out of the store and into my car.

     At home I place the makeup on the bathroom counter, change my clothes, and go for a run.

     My husband touched my bare face every day, little caresses against my cheek, ear, chin, and temple. My body knows his hands: the breadth of each finger pad, the coarse texture of each finger tip, the smooth, fleshy skin of his palm, the weight of his whole hand against my cheek, the pressure each finger exerts on my face, and the thin trail of moisture each finger tip leaves behind on my skin.

     A few hours after the EMTs and police left our house, I took a nap. I woke up to the weight of my husband’s hand on my right cheek. I opened my eyes and his disembodied, ghostly hand was there, hovering in front of my right eye. His fingers drew back as if to say, “Sorry I woke you.” I tried to keep his hand there, on the right side of my face. Don’t blink, I told myself. Stay, I told his hand. Don’t leave yet. Come back and rest on my cheek. His hand did not stay.

     Before the memorial I make a hundred sane decisions each day—what to eat, what to wear, where to get the programs printed—but every time I enter the bathroom, I see the makeup, three little tubes, and I am filled with anxiety. I am momentarily paralyzed. Should I put the makeup on now? Should I practice putting it on? I don’t. I turn and exit the bathroom.

     It’s the day of the memorial service. I feel out of synch with time. Time is moving past me, I’m moving past it. Sometimes this happens. I observe my surroundings and wait for the feeling to pass. The makeup is sitting on the counter. I stand. I dress. I brush my hair. I look in the mirror. Synch. There I am. It’s me. My movements match time again. I place my right hand on my bare right cheek. Time to go.

DC bike lane video

Watching an Evan Wilder DC bike lane video is an extremely satisfying and somewhat soothing experience. Thanks, Evan!