Grocery List: August 25, 2013 (or the Birthday Boy Edition)

IMG_0113About 10 or so years ago, a few family members went to Nestico’s in North Syracuse for a birthday dinner in my honor. Knowing that I don’t like having “Happy Birthday” sung to me or, really, any attention paid to the annual occurrence that is my birthday, The Father requested that the entire wait staff sing to me at dessert.

I got up, walked out of the restaurant and waited in the car.

Did I act like a prissy little bitch? Yes. Did my father know that I was going to do this? I’m sure he suspected it, which is exactly why he did it. I don’t know what my problem is, but I do not like attention paid to this day. Well, at least not anymore. I loved birthday parties as a kid. I loved the attention showered upon me, the cake, the presents, the…attention. I’m not entirely sure when that changed. The Wife gets it and makes sure to not go nuts with parties and such. For her 30th birthday, we had a bunch of people over for a clambake. For mine…I don’t remember. She and I probably went out for a quiet dinner. Exactly the way I want it.

So, last night when the waitress at Moro’s Table said, “I understand we have a birthday here” prior to taking our drink orders, I immediately pointed to The Aunt (New Al Dente character: The Aunt is my mother’s eldest sister, an eccentric 74-year-old who never married and never had children of her own. Thus, The Aunt was always like a surrogate in our family. Additionally, The Aunt is nuts and is known in many of my circles as My Crazy Aunt Marietta. Not just my aunt, or Aunt Marietta. My Crazy Aunt Marietta. It’s easier that way.) as the birthday girl. She deflected and then we all had a talk about how the candle on the table was the only candle that would be lit and that if anyone started singing “Happy Birthday” that I would use that candle to set the restaurant on fire.

The only recognition of my birthday from that point forward was the chocolate sauce used to script “Happy Birthday” on the plate which held the chocolate tort and bourbon ice cream that I had for dessert.

So, yes, August 25 is my birthday. Yes, I realize that writing an entire post about it defeats the purpose of not drawing attention to it. And yes, I know there this makes absolutely no sense. What can I say? As the lady at the table next to me last night said, “You’re a Virgo. Nothing makes sense.”

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