More from the Birthday Front:
So as you know, I turned (bleep) last week on my birthday and had a surprise bigger than the fact my eyebrows appear to be graying.
The Prince suggested I have a small party at our house that night and order some pizza and he would try and get home before it was over from work and grab a cake from the grocery. Surely you know me well enough now to know....I left many raging messages on my friend's voice mail and let him know what a negligent heinous man he was.
My birthday came, we had pizza, he came home with a small bakery cake, and it left.
Then he decided, "Hey. I'm a huge loser with a luscious wife. I need to invite a few people out for Saturday night and take her to some lame chain restaurant for her birthday." So he asked me to hire the babysitter. And told me not to dress up too much -- it wasn't that fancy of a place.
Would you have divorced him yet?
In the cab on the way to the restaurant (and we're late, by the way for our reservation) he decides we have to swing out of our way to pick up a friend -- who somehow can't walk by himself the 3 blocks to the place. (Yes, I would say seething and depressed were feelings simultaneously running through me at this point.)
We get to the friend's place. Go upstairs. And in the hall is said "friend's" roommate with a twisted ankle. In agony. Night over. I am asked to run into the apartment to grab some ice (and I figure a shot of vodka for me because I seriously need it).
I open the door, and 20 people scream "SURPRISE!" including my best friend who has driven in that day from Washington DC for the party.
Yes, you can say. No, it's okay. I can take. Okay, I'll say it. I am a Loser. The capital "L" is needed.
Two friends serenade me with live music (one plays piano, the other trumpet). There are balloons. There is REAL food. There are candles. There are Cosmos put in my hand all evening without my asking. There is a beautiful cake. The Prince dances with me. Slow dances. In front of our friends. Three times. He tells me he loves me. Many times.
I figure he has a pass for at least...who knows. I, however, know that despite my rantings (oh, and there will be more) I picked the right guy.
I picked a prince.
So as you know, I turned (bleep) last week on my birthday and had a surprise bigger than the fact my eyebrows appear to be graying.
The Prince suggested I have a small party at our house that night and order some pizza and he would try and get home before it was over from work and grab a cake from the grocery. Surely you know me well enough now to know....I left many raging messages on my friend's voice mail and let him know what a negligent heinous man he was.
My birthday came, we had pizza, he came home with a small bakery cake, and it left.
Then he decided, "Hey. I'm a huge loser with a luscious wife. I need to invite a few people out for Saturday night and take her to some lame chain restaurant for her birthday." So he asked me to hire the babysitter. And told me not to dress up too much -- it wasn't that fancy of a place.
Would you have divorced him yet?
In the cab on the way to the restaurant (and we're late, by the way for our reservation) he decides we have to swing out of our way to pick up a friend -- who somehow can't walk by himself the 3 blocks to the place. (Yes, I would say seething and depressed were feelings simultaneously running through me at this point.)
We get to the friend's place. Go upstairs. And in the hall is said "friend's" roommate with a twisted ankle. In agony. Night over. I am asked to run into the apartment to grab some ice (and I figure a shot of vodka for me because I seriously need it).
I open the door, and 20 people scream "SURPRISE!" including my best friend who has driven in that day from Washington DC for the party.
Yes, you can say. No, it's okay. I can take. Okay, I'll say it. I am a Loser. The capital "L" is needed.
Two friends serenade me with live music (one plays piano, the other trumpet). There are balloons. There is REAL food. There are candles. There are Cosmos put in my hand all evening without my asking. There is a beautiful cake. The Prince dances with me. Slow dances. In front of our friends. Three times. He tells me he loves me. Many times.
I figure he has a pass for at least...who knows. I, however, know that despite my rantings (oh, and there will be more) I picked the right guy.
I picked a prince.
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~Amanda