So, it's Valentine's Day, which means nothing in our house.
Oh, not because we don't love each other-- we do love each other, very much (don't you pay attention when I write about my Mrs. Apron?) but because we started cyber-courting on February 16th, which gives us a very convenient excuse to say "Fuck you" to Valentine's Day. We celebrate our love for each other on February 16th-- and pretty much whenever we remember to do it. Like while we're in the car together, talking about linguistics, or operetta, or cop-killing, while we're baking or watching "Teen Mom 2" or whatever.
And, as I was driving to work yesterday morning (yes, I work every other weekend-- Saturday AND Sunday, which is gay. And by "gay" I mean that the fact of me working every other weekend is akin to a gentleman inserting his penile shaft into the anus of another man and moving it around and stuff.) I was thinking to myself, "Gee, if the anniversary of the beginning of our romance together is on February 16th, what holidays/special events in our lives come after that?"
I like to think ahead, see.
My sister's birthday is March 31st. But that doesn't really count. If you don't know why, read a couple posts ago. The one where I write about her moving across the street from me. They just signed papers yesterday. Kill me.
My father's birthday is April 2nd, as is my mother-in-law's.
And then, whoo, babytittycakes: It's mine.
Thirty-one.
Everybody knows that a person's thirty-first birthday is about as exciting as an eleven-year-old Mercury Sable. With cloth interior. Of course, the only birthday of mine about which I've ever gotten excited was my sixteenth birthday, because I could drive and was finally able to legally buy a jar of Vaseline and a box of Kleenex at the same time at CVS. It's been pretty much downhill from that point on as far as my birthdays are concerned. Excitement and joy for my wife's birthday (October 9, in case you're curious) have far supplanted any interest in my own natalness.
Because I don't drink, 21 was just... awkward. As were pretty much all the ones that followed-- except for my 26th, which I celebrated with my wife in Bali on our honeymoon, which easily kicked all of my other birthdays right in the dick. We went on a 20-mile bike ride and I opened presents on a gigantic pillow-top bed in a hotel that we could never afford in America unless I worked 86 hours a week for a year and sold my blood and semen for five months straight.
My 30th birthday was pretty cool, too. My wife kidnapped me and took me to a folk music retreat. I met Nathan Rogers. If you know who he is, you know that's pretty cool. And if you're Nathan Rogers and you got here by Googling yourself, it's okay. I do it, too. But, funnily enough, I never end up here.
But seriously, Crash Bandicoot, knowing that my birthday is a mere three months away got me kind of thinking about my birthday, which sounds like a really annoying thing to say but, hey-- you must be used to that sort of thing by now. I was thinking about how I'd like to spend my birthday, and all I could come up with, while driving to work on a Sunday morning, was "at home with my wife." I could care less about the dogs. They could be there, or not. Actually, maybe if they were somewhere else, that would be better.
Just looked at the calendar for May. My birthday's on a Thursday. Unless the world alters drastically, I will be working from 7a-3p. There goes that idea.
While making preparations for my thirtieth birthday, my wife sat me down and, with seriousness uncustomary, said, "You know, if you want me to invite a bunch of friends over for a party, I hope you'll be honest with me and let me know so I can plan it." I looked at her. "if... you know... that's what you want."
"Sure," I said, "that's actually a good idea. And then, instead of a cake, maybe you can jam a fork into my left testicle and twist it around like you're wrapping spaghetti around a meatball."
And we all had a jolly good laugh.
It's not that I don't like my friends, it's just that I barely have any. And the friends that I do have are all from such disparate sections of my life that I am convinced a gathering with all of them would probably be one of the most awkward, bizarre, unfortunate events with cocktail weiners to occur since Bill Gates was knighted. I mean, can you imagine the painful attempts at small-talk at that shindig?
We decided that what would be in order for the two of us would be a Pyramid Scheme Birthday Party, (it's the only way we'd amass enough people for a, um, party) where ambiguous yet exciting invitations were sent out to a select group of individuals. These unfortunates would be given a time (probably, like, tomorrow) and place (probably, like, some warehouse) to show up, but they had to bring with them at least three other people who would benefit from this once in a lifetime opportunity.
And there would be pie-charts on butcher-block paper on easels and some guy in a monochromatic shirt-and-tie combination with pit stains and thinning hair talking about widgets and things. And then we'd all eat cake.
Maybe I'd like that. Except for all the people.
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