Birthday Shenanigans
From: August 2025
Let me set the scene: It was the summer of doing the absolute most. I worked full time, refereed sibling cage matches, monitored screen time like a CIA operative, and curated Pinterest-worthy family vacations that no one appreciated. So, when I realized my birthday fell on the same day as the first day of school, I thought, “Finally! The universe is aligning in my favor.” Cue the shoulder shimmy. Cue the plotting.
I ordered the cake a week in advance—a vanilla, cannoli-filled masterpiece with fresh strawberries and whipped icing. Then proceeded to quietly sing my favorite back to school song, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” like a deranged holiday elf. I had a plan. A glorious, self-indulgent, child-free plan.
The Birthday Itinerary (Pre-Reality Check):
• 8:07 AM: Drop kids at three different schools like a logistical goddess.
• 8:30 AM: Breakfast at my favorite café—no interruptions, no trips to the bathroom, no spilled juice, no one asking me what a mitochondria is mid-bite.
• 10:00 AM: Mani-pedi with Kay, the silent nail tech who understands that words are overrated.
• 1:00 PM: Hotpot heaven—brisket, broth, noodles and bliss—45 minutes away from carline hell.
But then... plot twist. At 6:00 Monday morning, I rolled over and saw my husband still in bed. This man usually leaves at 4:30 AM, so naturally I assumed I set the alarm wrong. But nope. He was taking the day off to “spend time together.” On my birthday. The one I had planned with military precision and zero spousal involvement.
The Day of Derailment:
• 7:04 AM: We leave the house like a synchronized swim team. So far, so good.
• 8:15 AM: Café breakfast—delicious, peaceful, promising.
• 9:30 AM: Barber shop. For his beard. Because nothing says “Happy Birthday” like watching someone else get a fade.
• 9:35 AM: Nail salon. I escaped to Kay’s silent sanctuary. One hour in, guess who shows up for his own mani-pedi? That’s right. My husband. Kay blinked twice in Morse code to ask if I was okay. I was not. So I sat there silently seething, starring daggers at the back of his head.
The Spiral Continues:
• 12:30 PM: Volkswagen dealership. Not to buy a car. Just to “see it.” Because apparently, "it's his turn," and my birthday is the perfect day to window shop for German engineering.
• 2:30 PM: Lunch at Panera. PANERA. Not hotpot. I chewed my turkey sandwich with as much enthusiasm as I have standing in line at the DMV. But instead of eating in the restaurant, I was scarfing my sandwich from carline. That’s right, the dreaded carline where the souls of parents go to die.
The Grand Finale
• 3:15 PM: Cars begin moving in Carline followed by 75 minutes of unmitigated hell.
• 4:30 PM: Children enter vehicle and immediately ask what am I making for dinner. No “Happy Birthday.” No “We love you.” Just hunger and entitlement.
• 5:00 PM: Publix. I paid for my own cake. Because why not add insult to injury?
• 6:15 PM: No dinner. No pots clanging from the kitchen. No husband, just loads of resentment. I ordered Chinese, picked it up, returned home like a ghost in yoga pants, and served it.
• 8:00 PM: No cake. No candles. No presents. Just me, my regrets, and a fortune cookie that read, “You will find joy in unexpected places.” Lies. All lies!
Moral of the Story: Birthdays are like group projects—you do all the work, and everyone else just shows up and eats cake. Except this time, no one even ate the cake!
-Schubert
