They say "the best predictor of the future is past behavior", and it is with deep regret that I'm going to have to say that "they" might be onto something.
June 25, 2004 my sister Emily had a destination wedding in Bermuda (oh, yeah, Happy Anniversary, Em). It was a small group of us in attendance for the wedding: immediate family, spouses and significant others and a few friends. Most of us landed a day or 2 in advance of the wedding to hang out, golf, get pedicures, read US Weekly by the pool, work on the tacky suntan/sunburn lines for our strapless numbers, and watch Em
micromanage take care of last minute wedding details as we knocked back our Coronas.
In short, we were dealing with a lot of shit.
I was so excited to be in Bermuda. I hadn't been away on a real vacation in awhile, I was thrilled to be somewhere warm with gorgeous beaches and
Dad's credit card to pick up the bar tab to hang out with the people I loved most. Which means that it was PERFECT timing for me to get sick. Like sick-sick. The day I left for Bermuda I could feel I was getting a sinus infection and, as these things do, it just kept getting worse. I didn't want to bother anyone with my troubles (as it was not "MY DAY!") so I kept my trap shut about it, but the day before the wedding, when I realized that I was feeling feverish and that my sinuses were so backed up that water was spilling out of my nose whenever I lifted my head, I thought maybe it was time to mention it to someone to that I needed medical attention before shit starts in on my asthma and things get really fun and exciting.
It was during all this that Bermuda was enduring Day Two of a countrywide taxi strike. So even when I FOUND a doctor who would see me on a last minute basis, there was the minor detail of getting me there. And back. Just thought I'd mention that. So I'm a little ...concerned.
Long story short, after finding a doctor who'd see me last minute and a rogue taxi driver to take me, the good doctor gave me the good stuff (Zirtho-pack) and after a pill and some R&R by the pool, I was feeling better almost immediately. I was GIDDY with joy that, unlike Stateside, I didn't have to beg for "the good antibiotics", and I could now get back to important things like, you know, not dying. I was also extremely comforted by the fact that I would neither be wiping my green ectoplasm snot into my bouquet nor spitting hucktueys into the sand as I walked down the beach thereby ruining the picturesque ceremony.
The day I went to see the doctor, the boys (BIL, BIL-to be, Mike, my Dad) had been out golfing since 6:00 a.m. and they returned late afternoon to find us girls lounging by the pool. I was feeling so much better after 1 dose of the Zithro, that I bounced over to the guys and told them as much (for you see, they worry) and asked Mike how he'd done, if he had beaten my Dad at golf. He had.
Oh a Z-pack high and hepped up that it was my guy was able to beat my father at golf (who is very good, by the way), I randomly 'rapped', "Go Shorty, it's yer birfday!", which, one should know, was not a phrase I was known to drop.
And it was with launch of those words, that my fate as Family Space Cadet was sealed forever.
"As a matter of fact, it is."
"Um, wh......[5,4,3,2, 1] Oh, shit."
This was in front of my 2 brother-in-laws, my Dad, my stepmom and my 2 sisters. My face went white. In the midst of everything, I had forgotten. I was the asshole girlfriend and there were witnesses to attest to this fact.
I had nowhere to go with this but downward, gut first, onto the sword.
Suffice it to say, I ate of lot of shit over that weekend.
But as I started out here, history is an excellent resource for predicting the future.
June 23, 2007:
Mike and I are in a cab on our way out to dinner and are having a little tiff over me being hours away from not meeting a deadline he'd set. A deadline, he contended, he'd imposed to line up with his birthday. After some back and forth over when the actual deadline was (I thought I had until the end of this week), he asserted no, it was a birthday deadline because he wanted to be able to tell his mother a definitive answer when we saw her on Sunday (June 24). Miffed that I was being wrongly accused, I spit back, "Well, you had said end of the week after I saw my sisters and besides, your birthday isn't even until TUESDAY."
"Uh, no it isn't; it's Sunday."
"Um, noooo, Sunday's when we're celebrating your birthday with your parents."
"Um, no, my birthday is the 24th."
"[dead silence] oh ...heh...well, ....this is embarrassing."
[Mike trying not to pee himself in cab]
"[in a small, cracking voice] oh...sna - ap. I swear I didn't forget! I just remembered it wrong. I mean, I have it marked on my calendar at work for the 26th and everything!"
(Seriously, 'Defense' Exhibit A:)
"Oh my God, you did it AGAIN. I suppose this means you didn't buy me a card yet either, huh?"
"Wait, are you surrrre it's the 24th? "
Happy Birthday, Mike. I'm sorry I keep doing this to you and you're a good man to see the humor in all this, but maybe we should consider moving it to another day? How does 6/30 work for you?