I picked the kids up this evening after their after-school program. I showed daughter my newly-painted, matte-like digits.
"They look awful." she said. "But your hair looks nice."
Good enough. I'll take it.
Back home, I just sat down and the doorbell rings. I buzz the guy in. Typically, UPS guy just leaves packages at the base of the stairs. This time, I could hear him coming up.
It's not the UPS dude. It's the Edible Arrangements dude. With a package of flower fruit for me. I sign for it and rush back into the apartment to see who sent me fruit.
'Cause nobody sent me fruit before.
The kids are cray. zee: there is chanting and yelling and high-fiving. All I want to do is figure out who sent me the fruit.
It's from my doctor.* And it says, "Happy Birthday..."
So now I'm confused, because my birthday is in June.
I call a friend. "OMG -- isn't this weird?" and before she had a chance to answer, I realize that today is 12-6. My birthday is 6-12. Mystery solved. I either had a 'special' moment when I was filling out paperwork in his office or there was a simple reversal of numbers in the data entry at his office. I'm betting 90/10 on my own special moment. You should see me at the beginning of the school year, filling out paperwork for my kids, who were both born in the same month.
Friend says, "How much time are you spending there to get an Edible Arrangement?"
I take a picture of the arrangement, and text it to Husband, telling him who they are from, and the reason.
"It's your birthday?" is his response.
"Yes," I text back. "Don't forget your gift."
Here's where I'm at: Free fruit is fucking awesome. But I feel guilty that it isn't my birthday. And more than that, I feel bad because I probably fucked up the form that said, "DOB".
Plan of Action: A Thank You for certain, and then some kind of not-fucked-up explanation about how I'm likely an asswipe that can't focus long enough to fill out a stupid medical form. I don't know if this kind of writing will require extreme sobriety or extraordinary booziness. Either way, it's mighty nice to get an unexpected basket of fruit, attractively arranged into flower-like prettiness.
Moving into homework, with a pot of veggie-chili on the stove, little guy says, "Hey. Tell Dad to bring home chocolate."
Little guy: "We can make fondue for the fruit."
And there it is, friends: When life delivers you free fruit, get someone to bring you chocolate, and have some fuckin' fondue.
Similar, but different, I hope his office is understanding when the school calls them to tell me my kid just puked in the classroom and needs to be picked up immediately. I'm pretty shitty with phone numbers, too.
* The doctor is not my gynocologist, FYI.