And You Smell Like One Too by Amy Chevalier-Webster

I count twenty-seven. Twenty-seven people have managed to squeeze themselves into 450 square feet. 450 square feet is the size of my efficiency apartment.
What do I expect? It’s my 38th birthday. This is my family.
I sigh, “Oh shit, it’s an intervention, isn’t it?”

For as long as I can remember, my family has ruined birthdays. Birthdays in general, mine specifically. It’s a tradition.
The Saturday I turned thirteen I already had my period for over a year, wore a size B-cup bra and more make-up than most hookers. My mother woke me up at noon, covered my eyes with her hands and we waddled down the stairs into the kitchen. Just after the sliding glass doors opened but before she uncovered my eyes and shoved me out unto the backyard, she whispered in my ear “it’s a surprise party.” Indeed it was. In front of me stood half of my junior high school class, and in front of them, I stood. I was wearing a Who Farted? t-shirt and a pair of my brother’s boxer shorts. But to amplify my shame, in the middle of the yard, was a circle of hay with four sad rented ponies. They were trudging around a pole they were barely even tied to.
Aunt Lucille was standing by the ponies with her coaxing carrots at the ready. She waved these at me and gestured towards the animals while mouthing something. I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say because she had gotten into the helium.
I heard my father’s always-too-loud voice from somewhere in the crowd, “she’s saying the first ride goes to the birthday girl.”
My mother began clapping and urging “Give it up for the birthday girl. Give it up for the birthday girl.”
There was some clapping. Mostly there was laughter and the high pitched squeaks of those who had joined my aunt at the helium tank. There was not a single balloon in sight.
As I stormed back into the house on my way to my room to kill myself, I passed my uncle Lonnie. “What, no clowns?” I cried in his direction.
He caught me in a bear hug and said “Are you kidding? Mr. Jingles is just taking a whiz.”
Six hours and forty hands of Gin Rummy later the hostage negotiations were concluded and I released Mr. Jingles from the upstairs bathroom. I, however, was unshakable in my last demand and remained another hour in the tub with the door locked.
Uncle Lonnie paid the clown an extra 200 bucks not to press charges. “Just take your donkeys and go” he told him. At this point Mr. Jingles was so stressed that he began punching Uncle Lonnie while repeating “they’re ponies you idiot.” Or so I’ve been told, repeatedly.
Later that night under the hum of the fluorescent lights in our parsley-themed kitchen my parents defended their party-related decisions.
“Well honey” my mother said, clearly confused, “I thought you asked for a clown and a pony ride for your birthday? It seems like you did.”
“Yes I did, when I was seven” I replied. “If I recall, that was the year you and Cousin Lou gave me the used Volvo.”