Friday, March 14, 2014

My Dad's Birthday

It was my dad’s birthday last week.  He called to remind me.

“Oh my GOSHHHHHHHH!” he squealed as soon as I picked up my phone.  “Thanks so much for the birthday card I got in the mail today!”

I rolled my eyes.  “You didn’t get a birthday card from me in the mail today,” I said.

“Wait, I didn’t?” he persisted, in case his point hadn’t been made clearly enough.

“No,” I said, “because your birthday isn’t until tomorrow, and I’m a better planner than that.”

I hurried over to the junk drawer to grab a pen and scribble DAD’S B-DAY onto the next day’s date on my wall calendar, because obviously, I had forgotten.  And obviously, I would forget the next day, too.

A thought occurred to me.  “Hey, just in case my card doesn’t get there tomorrow—because it won’t since I haven’t bought or sent it yet—and just in case I forget to call tomorrow, let me just go ahead and sing you your Happy Birthday song right now while I’ve got you on the phone.”

“No, really,” my dad protested, “that’s not necess—"

“Shut up.  I’ve only got 5 minutes before I leave for work, and I still have to get the kids ready for preschool.”

You see, peeps, my dad didn’t want to hear my song.  The thing is, I used to have the voice of an angel—one of those beautiful, sweet, church choir type voices.  In fact, I actually used to sing at church when I was in grade school and even a couple of times in high school.  I would love seeing peoples’ faces register shock as a song started and I opened my mouth to let out the first few light, feathery notes:  People just didn’t expect that kind of sweetness to come out of this jarring face.

Unfortunately, one night when I was 21 years old I went to bed, and when I woke up the next morning, my voice had simply…well, dropped.  I figured it was just a natural result of the beer, hookers, and cigarettes from the night before, and I waited patiently for it to come back.  But it never did.

How does a 21-year-old woman’s voice just change in the middle of the night?  I don’t know. Perhaps God felt that it was time my honking seal voice caught up with my honking seal face.  In any case, my extreme voice change is just one of the many reasons my husband and I have become convinced that I used to be a man.

Anyway, back on the phone  with my dad, I launched into a 2 ½ minute version of Happy Birthday which would pretty much cover me for when I forgot his birthday the next day.

When I was finished singing and we had hung up, it occurred to me that since I didn’t have a real birthday present, I could dedicate a blog post to him for his birthday.  I mean, isn’t it every father’s dream that his daughter become a totally unpaid, unpublished blog authorette who has to hide her identity because she frequently talks about what a dirty whore she used to be?

Aw…*blushing*…you’re welc, Dad.

So this week, I’d like to use my blog post to wish my dad a happy birthday.  You bastards are lucky I haven’t figured out how to add pre-recorded music to this blog shit or else you’d have to listen to the same song my dad heard the other day, too. 

Count your blessings, folks.

So HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Dad!  And oh—your real present—the one I hurriedly went out and bought you the day we talked on the phone—is a coffee mug.  Hopefully you still drink coffee;  I never know with all of the newfangled old people diets you’re always trying to adopt in order to help you hold onto the knees and hips you were born with so that you can brag to all of your old people friends who’ve had to have theirs replaced.

The mug is green for St. Patrick’s Day.  Which reminds me, everyone:  Happy St. Pat’s Day!

There’s an old Irish blessing—you’ve probably heard it before—that goes a little something like this:

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind always be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
May the rains fall softly upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the palm of His hand

And I think it’s a beautiful blessing and I wish all of you that, too--especially those of you with fields. But allow me to revert to my 12-year-old boy personality and offer you this blessing, which I penned myself:

May you drink enough green beer that you see it in your poop the next day

Have a good one, my friends!

 

6 comments:

  1. Aww Shay!!! Thank you for the Birthday Blog. Can't wait to get my green mug. And in the spirit of my blog, concerning your voice, I still like when you sing tenor, just as long as it's Ten-or 20 miles from me!!! Love Dad

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  2. Honking seal voice----you crack me up, Shay. Happy Birthday to your dad. LOVE your family stories!

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  3. Happy birthday to your dad! I love the idea of seniors one-upping each other about who still has the most of their original parts. Haha.

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  4. I have a few mugs at my place that I'd be happy to contribute -- you could put them in a basket and throw in a few beer nuts and Reese's pieces. Then he'd be calling you every single day to thank you for such an original gift. Happy birthday, Dad!

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  5. Ha - my dad likes to tell that tenor joke too! Happy St Patty's day to you too, Shay. Cheers!

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  6. That is an awesome blessing! And I wish that it HAD actually come true :( one homemade shamrock shake and a regular NON-dyed, non fun beer did not change the color of any of my bodily fluid. So sad. Being grown up is so boring.
    Happy birthday to your dad!

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