Dave came in last night (yeah, I'm sick of calling him 'D') with a bunch of roses. At 12:00 a.m. he called my mom to thank her for giving birth to me. You'd have to know my mom to know how excited she was when she got the call. She doesn't get enough credit for her contributions, so I know she was happy. I could hear her through the phone, promptly stepping onto her soapbox, giving Dave the rundown on my birth, childhood, etc...
"You know, Dave - the doctors didn't know whether Gigi was a boy or a girl. No one could tell. Don't tell her that though."
"She's so skinny that I've always thought she looked like a carrot." [This is not true, I'm not really skinny nor a carrot, per se]
"She used to dance around with her little baby gut sticking out."
"I nursed her for this long."
Dave, of course, loved every bit of this.
My dad called me on October 3rd to see what I wanted. I was immediately suspicious. I mean, how the hell did he know it was my birthday? This is not to say that we're not close, but we're a lot alike; very self-involved, busy, non-birthday oriented. To that end, I fulfilled my end of the bargain and told him what I wanted.
My sister called me today and made sense of the "dad actually remembering my birthday" situation for me.
"So, I was talking to dad the other night and I asked him what he was getting you for your birthday. He was like, 'oh shit!'" She explained.
"Ah ha! I knew something was up! I knew he didn't remember!"
Anyway, we went to Blue Ribbon tonight. It was good, but not as good as Dave led on. I should know never to trust him. He's got bad taste. If you don't believe me, you should check out his girlfriend.