Two days ago…
“I’ve sent my Aunty J a birthday card,” I said to my dad, “But I realised after I sent the card that I’ve put the wrong age on it: I thought she was 70 but it says on her Facebook profile that she’s 74, so this will be her 75th. I don’t think she’ll mind about getting a 70th card anyway, at least I assumed she was younger than she is, so all good.”
In true Dad style, my father responds with “Oh no, you’re not getting away with that! I’m going to make sure she minds; I’ll stir things with her until she does!”
I’m quite sure my father could hear me rolling my eyes even though he was 12,000 miles away and we were talking via text message.
I sent a message to my dad, asking how the party went. Her younger brother threw the party at his place, and all her siblings & in-laws were there, too, plus kids, nephews, nieces, etc. The usual family gathering (hopefully minus the usual family arguments & fisticuffs)
“Yes, it was great” my reprobate father tells me, “But the only person who got your Aunty J’s age right was one of her sisters-in-law, N, because N knew your Aunty J was a year older than her.”
Wait… so Aunty J wasn’t 75?
“No. Turns out she was 74 this year.”
So why did her brother throw her a 75th birthday party?
“Because he didn’t realise, he got her birthday wrong.”
What I can’t stop laughing about it that N’s husband, my Uncle T, must have known all along that his little brother had my Aunty’s age wrong AND HE NEVER SAID ANYTHING. He let his little brother carry on with the party, getting the balloons, organising everything, cards, presents, the lot, he went along with the whole thing, all the while knowing that it wasn’t my Aunty’s 75th.
And if that’s not bad enough, consider this: my Aunty didn’t say anything, either! She let the whole thing go ahead and didn’t enlighten her brother as to her real age.
What is with my family? I swear to god, we’re all a bunch of nutters and airheads, sprinkled with a good solid dash of behind-the-hand sniggerers!
Happy whatever birthday to my Aunty. I hope you enjoyed your pre-emptive 75th party.
Hi! I’m Karen O’Connor, hormonally-challenged, peri-menopausal writer, blogger, self-confessed sarcasm enthusiast, mother of 4, wife of 30 years, destroyer of souls... no, wait, that's just in the mornings...