My Birthday, Part 1: What Was Supposed to Happen

My birthday last year was amazing. I got The Band to play, we had an epic snowball battle with fake snowballs, my neighbor made tattoos of my face…

I thought, why not repeat that again this year? If it ain’t broke, you know?

So, months in advance, I was happy to secure the band and the venue. This year was going to be even better because the band’s guitarist was graciously letting me be Birthdayzilla by requesting that certain songs make the set list, while others not so much. (“Stacy’s Mom” does not have it going on in my book.)

I also bought two of these:

A blow-up beach ball that you stick a glow stick inside. How fun for an outdoor night-time event, no?

Also, since I blew it last year and didn’t take advantage of my pull with the band by requesting “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for Neighbor and me to dance on a table to, I made certain it would make the cut this year. “Not a problem,” Guitarist had said with a smile.

All was looking golden, and I couldn’t be more excited.

Then this…

Nooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!! And thanks for spelling my name wrong. But also, noooooooooo!!!!!

Could the band do a different date? No. I tried, they tried, we all tried to find another venue for that date, but with only a couple of weeks lead time, everything was, of course, booked.

My bartender friend told me, it’s not that I was put on “the wrong calendar,” it’s that the owner doesn’t USE a calendar. He tries to keep everything in his head. So when Bartender, on my behalf, asked about the date, again, months ago, the owner assured him that day was free.

I tried to stay hopeful, but it just wasn’t looking good.

Then…

At least he got my name right this time.

Notice the date on this one? Three days notice.

I texted the guitarist, stiiiiiiilll clinging to a bit of hope. He responded that the bassist had been putting off a work trip because of the gig, but when it seemed pretty clear there wasn’t going to be a gig, he booked his trip.

All hope died.

I texted Bartender: “What’s really going on here?”

He responded: “The other dude got Covid.”

So, the brewery owner flat out lied to me to save face. When I relayed this story to a friend, he said, “Can you blame him?”

My answer was, “Yes, I can.” If he had been honest about his big score being canceled due to Covid, rather than making it seem like the other party was “being a pain,” I might have felt sorry for him. But, nope.

Also, he had to have gotten my number from Bartender in the first place. Did he not think I would get the real scoop from my inside man?

I’m thinking an unkind word that ends with “iot.” A part of me (a small part) was happy the band thing didn’t work out because I don’t feel like this guy, who canceled the band twice now and stiffed them once, Guitarist informed me, deserves our business. Hubby and I have decided we will never go there again.

So what’s your take, friends? Am I overreacting, or do I have a right to be ticked? Was this guy saving face excusable or is he just a punk? I welcome your feedback. And your condolences. You should probably start there. 😉