Life In Hell

I forgot to call my dad on his 70th birthday. I think he's going to disown me, but not before my stepmother slips some cyanide in my Chardonnay.

I'm in deep shit.

There are two ironies here:

The first is the big 70th party that is planned for Saturday. The party that I have had on my calendar for weeks. The party that I have been writing a speech for. The party that has been occupying my thoughts so much lately that I let it take the place of my dad's birthday.

The second irony is the fact that I don't forget birthdays. In fact, I made a special effort to remind my ex-husband of his mother's birthday, just yesterday, to which he replied, "Oh, you are so good with birthdays!" And then my knees went weak (not because of his compliment or his charm) as I remembered that my own father's birthday had come and gone three days ago.

"Wait," I thought. "How could that be? The party isn't until Saturday!"

I tried this argument with my dad on the phone yesterday but I don't think he bought it.

What really stinks is when you can sense the disappointment in someone's voice and you know that you are the reason.

And then it really sucks when his sidekick, or wife, gives you a greeting that is so chilly that you'd swear that the icicles were practically hanging from her mouth. She even tells you to forget about the speech, there probably won't be time for it anyway.

So, you just figure, now's the time to pull out all the stops. Get the tattoo. Mention the new 30-year-old object of your affection. Spend Ben's college fund. Go to town. You're already in hell, anyway.