No She Di-in't

The night before my birthday, I hook up with a few of The Gals at an event sponsored by Skinnygirl Cocktails. I 've invented a few of them myself, but the brand makes it a breeze. We meet after work and it is clearly a ladies night out. 

We meet some perfect strangers who have a birthday girl among their crowd and are instant friends. Taking pictures, swapping numbers, sharing funny stories. This one has a new car she is convinced she has no real control over and it drives itself. That one's son got a two day suspension for school for farting in class. She was so mad she went to see the principal and nearly gave herself a hernia trying to let one rip during the meeting.

And then, bored with the ladies night and jonesing for food that didn't scream "Skinny girl trying to remain skinny" by containing nothing with more than a handful of calories, we jump in a cab (that Kate scams from someone who had clearly been waiting for it...) and head to the latest, greatest beer hall.

Oh. What. Fun.

Long tables like at Oktoberfest. A thousand decent beers on tap and none of them end in the word "lite."  Fire pits. Exposed brick. Trees. Awesome drunken food like potato pancakes and french fries and soft pretzels.  And the socialness of having to sit at long tables with friends you haven't met yet.  We traipse home in the wee hours. I dread the next day.

But the day arrives. I am astonishingly old and feel it.

It is a work day which is a bummer, but I am getting my kiddos back after work, so that is a bonus. 

Scott and the kids and I will be together at Scott's on Saturday, and Charlotte and Jack will be coming over for a drink and a visit after seeing their sons off to prom.  I have a lot to look forward to.

Facebook greetings abound.  Lots of love from lots of familiar places.  Sweet calls and messages from Scott. Texts from my kids. Cards from tons of people.

But not Mom. No card. No call. Nothing.

No. She is going to win this pissing contest and not remember the day I came squeezing out of her womb into the world.  What-ev.

Hil asks if I'd heard from her. Brightly, I say, "No, sweetie. No biggie, so don't worry." She rolls her eyes. What-ev.

A friend at work asks if Estelle extended an olive branch.  I tell her no.  But truly, it is okay. If this is what she wants, I can't say I don't welcome it. A life without her is one that ceases to be fraught with the potential for violent confrontational conflict over tons of nothingness. Who needs it?

And then on Monday, there is a card-sized envelope in the mail with her handwriting crazily scrawled across it. Uh-oh. No she di-in't.

I flip it over. It is addressed to Hil and Pat.

WTF?