| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 16, 2021 |
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Unhappy birthday girl cheered by greetings
Duty Calls-10 Minutes Well Spent
by Elizabeth Emerald
The one birthday I unfailingly remember is Sandra's.
For the 14 years I've known her (as a fellow food-pantry volunteer) Sandra has never failed to (repeatedly) remind me, and whichever unfortunate bystanders are in ear-SHOUT, that her birthday is April 16th.
Sandra is not, euphemistically speaking, well-liked. She is infamously whiny and utterly self-absorbed.
Sandra (don't dare call her "Sandy") is a consummate sour-puss.
If you don't acknowledge her birthday, she'll sulk.
If you give her a present that she doesn't like (and guaranteed, she won't), she'll say so.
Don't expect a reciprocal card; as far as Sandra is concerned, a birthday is a birthright that belongs to her alone.
Did I say "utterly" self-absorbed?
Scratch the modifier. Better yet, scratch the whole thing.
In fact, Sandra has long been wholly absorbed in the single-handed care of her ailing parents. (Her demented father died last year.)
Sandra's only respites have come (dis)courtesy of her own sundry surgeries: a couple of cancers here and there, as well as a bilateral (prophylactic) mastectomy, and a (benign) brain tumor.
I called Sandra this afternoon to acknowledge her birthday. I didn't spew insipid words of cheer; I knew that her birthday would not be a happy one.
I was right. Sandra regaled me with her latest surgical travails; stones removed from the left kidney, the right one pending excavation. Next up: spinal fusion.
Sandra relayed her news matter-of-factly then turned her focus to my welfare.
She thanked me profusely for bringing cheer to her day.
(Did I say whiny? Scratch that.)
The one birthday I unfailingly remember is Sandra's.
For the 14 years I've known her (as a fellow food-pantry volunteer) Sandra has never failed to (repeatedly) remind me, and whichever unfortunate bystanders are in ear-SHOUT, that her birthday is April 16th.
Sandra is not, euphemistically speaking, well-liked. She is infamously whiny and utterly self-absorbed.
Sandra (don't dare call her "Sandy") is a consummate sour-puss.
If you don't acknowledge her birthday, she'll sulk.
If you give her a present that she doesn't like (and guaranteed, she won't), she'll say so.
Don't expect a reciprocal card; as far as Sandra is concerned, a birthday is a birthright that belongs to her alone.
Did I say "utterly" self-absorbed?
Scratch the modifier. Better yet, scratch the whole thing.
In fact, Sandra has long been wholly absorbed in the single-handed care of her ailing parents. (Her demented father died last year.)
Sandra's only respites have come (dis)courtesy of her own sundry surgeries: a couple of cancers here and there, as well as a bilateral (prophylactic) mastectomy, and a (benign) brain tumor.
I called Sandra this afternoon to acknowledge her birthday. I didn't spew insipid words of cheer; I knew that her birthday would not be a happy one.
I was right. Sandra regaled me with her latest surgical travails; stones removed from the left kidney, the right one pending excavation. Next up: spinal fusion.
Sandra relayed her news matter-of-factly then turned her focus to my welfare.
She thanked me profusely for bringing cheer to her day.
(Did I say whiny? Scratch that.)
For the 14 years I've known her (as a fellow food-pantry volunteer) Sandra has never failed to (repeatedly) remind me, and whichever unfortunate bystanders are in ear-SHOUT, that her birthday is April 16th.
Sandra is not, euphemistically speaking, well-liked. She is infamously whiny and utterly self-absorbed.
Sandra (don't dare call her "Sandy") is a consummate sour-puss.
If you don't acknowledge her birthday, she'll sulk.
If you give her a present that she doesn't like (and guaranteed, she won't), she'll say so.
Don't expect a reciprocal card; as far as Sandra is concerned, a birthday is a birthright that belongs to her alone.
Did I say "utterly" self-absorbed?
Scratch the modifier. Better yet, scratch the whole thing.
In fact, Sandra has long been wholly absorbed in the single-handed care of her ailing parents. (Her demented father died last year.)
Sandra's only respites have come (dis)courtesy of her own sundry surgeries: a couple of cancers here and there, as well as a bilateral (prophylactic) mastectomy, and a (benign) brain tumor.
I called Sandra this afternoon to acknowledge her birthday. I didn't spew insipid words of cheer; I knew that her birthday would not be a happy one.
I was right. Sandra regaled me with her latest surgical travails; stones removed from the left kidney, the right one pending excavation. Next up: spinal fusion.
Sandra relayed her news matter-of-factly then turned her focus to my welfare.
She thanked me profusely for bringing cheer to her day.
(Did I say whiny? Scratch that.)
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