Have you ever seen a cuter baby? No, you have not.
I was maybe a week old here, born on the day many of you are reading this (February 1st!) Look at that silky-spun, sweet, sweet newborn baby hair. Yes, it was real, and yes, it was fabulous.
Look also at the child sitting next to me. That’s my big brother and he was always out to get me. See how he’s got a little finger gun pointed at my back? He’s saying, When I break shit, you will say you did it. When I want my super ball back, you will run across the street and get it. When I refuse to eat the frozen peas the babysitter is serving, you will cry so hard you will make yourself physically sick so I can make my getaway. Ya dig?
Yes, I dug. I did all of those things for my big brother and so much more and yet none of that was the worst thing he’s ever done to me. Not even close. Now decades later, I think I’m ready to tell that story. My story. In honor of my birthday, we shall reflect on the worst birthday in the history of my birthdays. And I have had a lot birthdays (thankfully.)
I was about to turn ten. That was basically an adult in the 80’s. My newfound maturity coupled with the first double digit birthday could only mean one thing: this birthday would be epic. Birthdays were always a big deal in our house. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents came over for dinner and cake, and then the birthday boy or girl opened up a bunch of wrapped gifts before being sent out of the room on a fake errand. (Is there a light on in the backyard? Did you put away your laundry? Could you show your cousin where we keep the Pepto?) We did this knowing full well when we returned to the living room, our “big” present would be waiting in front of the fireplace.
Before we go on, you need a bit of backstory. I love animals. Always have. I’m especially obsessive about dogs. Now, it’s not unusual for a kid to want a dog and I was no exception. But I wanted a dog with a fiery, burning passion. Dogs were the only thing I thought about. When my mom took me the grocery store, I went straight to the dog food aisle and fondled the tennis balls and rubber chews and tried to imagine if I had a beef and rice or chicken and sweet potato kind of canine.
I had a stuffed dog that looked nothing like a real dog and yet…yet, I carried that thing down the street and made it look like it’s little felt tongue was licking my face while I said, “Ohhh stop it, Buddy! No licking! Ooooooh stoppppppppp!” I did this in front of other kids. Like, human, sentient children saw me do this. And yes, of course they laughed! The saving grace was I think they thought I was trying to be funny. I went home and cried regardless.
I also had an imaginary dog named Woofie. He was a beautiful German Shepard. I played fetch with Woofie and practiced training him on our front yard. The only thing my mom said about Woofie was he better stay off the furniture and I should probably take him in the backyard because it was fenced.
I am the first to admit my brother and I wanted for very little growing up. The only thing missing was a dog. But my mom was terrified of animals. Literally any animal. Allegedly she got chased by a dog when she was three and never got over it. For the rest of her life anytime she saw a dog on the sidewalk, her eyes would bulge, she’d start shaking and yell, “kalb” which I think meant dog in Lebanese. No idea why she thought screaming something in a different language would thwart the dog calmly walking on a leash, on the sidewalk sixty-seven feet in front of her car. (Years later I got a book of dog breeds and asked her to identify the dog that chased her. You guys, it was a Boston terrier!) But alas, this was a woman who didn’t even like to see robins in the backyard and yet, I could not, would not, give up on my dream. You cannot want something this badly without somehow manifesting it.
My dog dreams weren’t secret. Literally everyone knew how badly I wanted—no—needed a dog. Most people just ignored me. Some pitied me. Only one exploited me.
About a week before my birthday my brother pulled me aside and said he had a huge secret.
“I saw dog food in the garage,” he said.
The literal hell? It took every molecule in my body standing at absolute rapt attention to keep from passing out right there in the laundry room.
“But…why?” Spell it out for me, big brother! SAY WHAT IS IN MY HEART!
“That can only mean one thing, dummy” he said. “Mom and dad are getting you a dog for your birthday.”
“Don’t say anything!” he cautioned. “And don’t go in the garage! You’ll ruin everything!”
Of course I wouldn’t say anything! Why would I ruin the surprise those two beautiful humans who loved their baby daughter were cooking up?! I wouldn’t even go near aisle 11 at Price Chopper! But could he at least tell me more about this bag of dog food?
Was it a big bag?
Yes.
How did he know for sure it was dog food and not fertilizer or a bag of giveaways for the Salvation Army?
Because there was a dog on the front of the bag, dumb ass!
What kind of dog?
I don’t know. Like a collie or something?
A collie…my goodness, I loved collies! I was getting a dog!
Normally I savor every goddamn second of my birthday from the first flutter of my eyelids to the tantrum I invariably threw at 10:48 PM upon realizing my next birthday was 365 days away. But on this birthday? I wished I were a wizard who could speed up time. I couldn’t wait for the special breakfast and lunchtime party for my friends and pizza and soda party for my classmates and family coming over and favorite dinner and ice cream cake and wrapped presents to just be done so I could finally hold my tangible, palpable, living fur-covered dream in my loving, empty arms. What would it feel like to have kisses from a dog without a felt tongue?
LET’S GET ON WITH IT, PEOPLE!
“Shelly,” my mom said.
Oh my god!
“Can you bring up another bottle of Tab from the basement?”
My brother and I shared a glance. He nodded with the subtlety of a Secret Service agent about to give the GO order. I could not believe that when I returned from the basement with a liter of Tab, I would be a dog owner. Tonight a dog would sleep in my bed. Tomorrow I would wake up and feed my dog. How would I ever be able to leave my dog behind while I went to school? What would I name him? Or her? Maybe it already had a name? I was pondering this very thing as I made my way down the hallway and back into the living room. My cousin Tracy had a camera trained on me. My Aunt Gail took the decoy liter of Tab.
The world slowed. The moment was here. I looked at the space in front of the fireplace and saw it.
A bike.
A big, shiny, beautiful ten-speed, mothergoddamnfucking bike.
A bike.
A bike was a big present.
A bike was an awesome present.
A bike was too big and awesome a present for a kid who was also about to get a dog.
I mean, ten was a huge deal, but was it bike and dog huge? Even to a sheltered, moderately spoiled, kid that seem like a lot.
I searched the room for the one person who could fix this. The one person who would make this make sense. The one person who….
…was laughing his bitchy little ass off.
BETRAYAL!
The room was silent except for the hyena cackling of a deranged twelve-year-old. But no one paid attention to him. All eyes were on me, the spoiled, verklempt, ungrateful birthday girl.
I did not look at my parents or the guests assembled in the living room to fete me. I knew better than to do that. I gave my brother one more chance to make this right. Maybe he wasn’t laughing at me. Maybe he was laughing because I didn’t realize the big big present was being walked in on a leash behind me? Maybe ten was this huge!
Or maybe my parents had a change of heart and returned the dog. Maybe it died. Maybe they left it in the garage with the food and it froze! It was February in upstate New York, after all! These people didn’t know how to take care of a dog!
Man, I just couldn’t give up the dream!
I could feel my eyes filling up with tears. This could go either way. Was I so happy, I was brought to tears? Every cell in my tween body was screaming, Noooooooooooooooooooooooo until my mouth was screaming it too. The tears came and I ran down the hall to my bedroom to hide. Could you mourn something you never had?
When everyone was gone, my mom came into my room and sat on the bed. I was about to get it. I embarrassed her in front of her family and there was no greater crime.
“How could you, Michele?"
Oh yeah, I was dead meat. I was being addressed by the full name.
“Your father is devastated,” she continued. “He was so proud of that bike. You couldn’t have hurt him more if you kicked him.”
Dramatic, right? I mean, it wasn’t like he made that bike. And really? He wouldn’t be more hurt if I gave him a nice, swift roundhouse to the femur? But I shit you not. Those were her words. I will forever remember the tone, the inflection, and her face contorting with disgust as she said them!
“I like the bike,” I sobbed. “But I thought I was getting…a dog.”
“A DOG?” she yelled. “A DOG? Why the hell would you think you were getting a dog????”
I saw my brother’s shadow moving around in the hallway. He was at the scene of the crime. So proud of his dirty work.
“Because…because…”
“Because I just wanted one so bad!” I sputtered before shriveling up like the pink and green balloons on the mantle. Even I knew that reasoning was pathetic.
The year I ruined my tenth birthday and mortified my parents lived on in our family lore for years. My mom was still mortified, even decades after, but we did love her, “You couldn’t have hurt him more” monologue even though she didn’t remember saying it. My dad had no memory of the bike or his alledged devastation.
Then one year the story came up and I just didn’t find it funny the way I used to. So I added an epilogue.
“You know why I thought I was getting a dog, right?”
Everyone shook their head, even my brother.
“Because Mike told me I was.”
Incredulous stares.
Furrowed brows.
Silence.
Holy shit, I thought. They don’t believe me! They’re going to take his side over mine again!
But then all eyes shifted to my brother, waiting for his rebuttal.
“I would never!”
“Of course you would!” we all agreed. I mean duh. We know him. Have for years.
This intel newly mortified my parents. All this time they thought I was just a delusional brat, but really their eldest was soaked with evil.
I find the story funny again and no longer cringe when it’s brought up. My brother feels sort of bad about it. Mostly proud, but he’s not a total psychopath.
“I honestly can’t remember telling you that,” he’s told me multiple times. “Or if I did, I probably didn’t think you’d believe me.”
He’s not wrong about that. Ahh well, love makes you irrational.
Speaking of love, here’s me and Charlie1— my first and forever-favorite dog. I adopted her a few years after I moved to Seattle because I was a grown up and no one could stop me.
It’s been a parade of dogs, foster dogs, and even a cat ever since. And yes, even as a middle-aged lady mom, I still fall for my brother’s assholery now and then.
Somethings are hard to forget. Just like riding a bike.
Fun fact: My mom actually met Charlie (and referred to her as her “granddogger.”) They even sat in the same room! Charlie was so old and arthritic, my mom said she wasn’t afraid of her because she knew she could outrun Charlie if she had to.