Happy Birthday to Me?

At one point in time my birthday used to be a week long celebration.  While my dad tries to tell me that my sisters and I enacted week long birthday celebrations ourselves, I blame my dad for our birthday excitement – he generally celebrated pretty hard – complete with our favorite food for dinner and extra frosting for the birthday girl.  Looking back, he was probably celebrating the fact that we were one year closer to being married off…(love you dad…)

Nonna clearly did not get the memo that the birthday girl gets to rule the roost for one day…

On Wednesday I celebrated my 26th birthday (I know…I am applying for AARP next week…). On Monday, Nonna makes the following announcement:

Nonna: I invite your father and step mama over for dinner wednesday.  We havin lasagna.

Me: I hate lasagna.

Nonna: So…its a celebration for me and your father.

Me: What.

Nonna: You is the number one first granddaughter and you father love lasagna.

Me: But I HATE lasagna and its my birthday.

Nonna: So. I cooking and we celebrate me.

Me: But its my birthday.

Nonna: So.

I then stormed upstairs.  Now, some people might think this is immature. But I REALLY hate lasagna. If forced to choose between Nonna’s lasagna and grass…I would choose Nonna’s lasagna…but still, I wouldn’t eat it happily.  Anyhow, my birthday is usually the one day of the year where I get to call the shots, so I thought…I at least thought I would get chicken parm out of the deal.

On Tuesday, Nonna confirmed my availability for dinner…(where else do I eat on a weeknight?).  I once again voiced my disdain at her meal choice.

Me: I am really upset you are making lasagna for my dinner.

Nonna: Stopppp it.

Me: No, seriously…I hate lasagna and its my birthday…I would rather eat scrambled eggs for my birthday dinner.

Nonna: Honeydew, its a compliment.  Lasagna is a celebratione. We celebrate you with wonderful lasagna and we celebrate your father for making you.

Me: Gross.

Nonna: Your father raise on you…so we celebrate him

Me: Nonna, that doesn’t make any sense. Like at all.

Nonna: Okay. I really want a lasagna and you cant make lasagna for one person.


Nonna: I make on you brown pasta and briacole.

Me: That is better.

Nonna: And I makin you brownie from the dollar store.


On the day of my birthday…I was still slightly disappointed that my meal would be on the same table as hagly lasagna, but attempted (sort of) to swallow my disdain.  I went home for dinner to find Nonna was no where to be found…20 minutes later she arrived home and began preparing dinner furiously.

We all sat down for dinner…and she serves me…


Me: (looks down at my plate): No Brown pasta?

Nonna: No…eat it…you gonna like.

No…I didn’t like it…but I ate it.

And then…she served me leftover apple cobbler. Not even a candle. Granted, she was out of the house all day unexpectedly…but still…Good thing step mama made me the best brownies ever to compensate for my birthday disaster.

When I teased Nonna that I would not be celebrating my birthday with her anymore…she started to cry.  Whoops.

She can dish it…but she sure as hell can’t take it…but hey, like my dad always says “If you want to play with the big dogs…you can’t piss like a puppy.”



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