I'm not particularly big on my birthday, since so many have been disappointing. I'd rather just ignore that it's coming, and do something else. But Husband's birthday should be a big deal, and it totally is. Especially this year, when not a whole lot has been going well for us recently. So I decided to throw him a party. And I wanted it to be an awesome party. I wanted it to be the kind of party that had talk of strippers and nights in Rodanthe and had the cops called to it.
...For the record, that last one nearly happened. Yeah, it's that kind of story.
So being an army man and having army buddies and not particularly caring for croquet or white irises, Husband wanted to have his birthday party at a local watering hole, a wings place that had fifteen thousand kinds of wing sauce and one salad, complete with wings in it, on the menu. But I agreed, as long as I could still bring him a birthday cake.
|Look at this piece of shit cake. This garbage destroyed my faith in humanity. And my faith in cake.|
As for the rest of the night, it went particularly well. That is, until he began opening presents. It went smoothly at first, but then we got to the final gift. I should explain that it is not unusual at all for the two of us to buy each other toys we would have enjoyed at the age of eight as gifts nearly as frequently as we do the tube socks and jewelry thing. Thus it was not at all odd for me to buy him the biggest Nerf gun on the market.
|If he looked at me with this much joy, I'd assume it was because he'd figured out a way to kill me for the insurance money.|
In the bar.
At people's heads.
|This was supposed to be a picture of him firing on his buddies. But I was laughing so hard that I dropped the camera.|
Not that it was not hilarious that he was pelting his friends in the face with Nerf darts, but you know, sometimes, I really want a party to be closer to white irises than a police escort home. Just saying.