The Birthday Dinner

So tomorrow is the Big Bean’s birthday and last night we went out for dinner with the BFF and her husband, Mr. Style — because the BFF’s birthday is just 10 days before the Big Bean’s and it’s both entertaining and economical to celebrate the two events together.

Okay, the truth is we probably would’ve all had dinner anyway eventually but if we make sure to arrange it between the two birthdays we can call it a “Birthday Dinner” and it counts toward their presents. The Big Bean will wake up tomorrow and I’ll give him a kiss and a card and maybe a candy bar or something.

He’ll be all “Where are my other presents?” and I’ll be all “What do you mean, other presents?” and he’ll be all “Um… surely you got me something besides this candy bar” and I’ll be all “UMM? We went out to dinner Friday with the Styles, remember?” and he’ll be all “So?” and I’ll be all “Well THAT was your present” and he’ll be all “Surely you’re joking” and I’ll be all “I’m not joking bitch and stop calling me Shirley” because I swear to god, THE SHIRLEY JOKE WILL NEVER NOT BE FUNNY.

And he’ll laugh because seriously, didn’t you ever see Airplane? That joke’s a CLASSIC. And then he’ll forget all about the fact that he’s not getting shit on his birthday.

Anyway, we finally got seated and the food was great and I got drunk on Mexican martinis and we told funny stories about our lives back in “the day” when we were young and had no kids and could stay out past 10 PM even on a school night without being completely worthless the next day.

And of course we got to re-hash that HILAAAAAARIOUS story about the time I got so drunk on White Russians that I ended up wrapped around the toilet in some random bathroom stall and refused to open the door to let anyone in until they called the ambulance to come and get me because I was SURE I’d been poisoned and medical attention was required and I was not leaving that stall unless it was on a stretcher no I was not and everyone kept trying to coax me out but I just kept hugging that toilet shouting “CALL 911! CALL 911!”

Because god knows THAT story just NEVER GETS FUCKING OLD.

We also talked about albinos and goats with mustaches and some other shit I can’t remember because hello, MEXICAN MARTINIS — and by 9:15 I was ready to go home and get in my yoga pants and watch old reruns of Charmed before falling asleep with my mouth open in that super sexy way I do.

What I’m trying to say is, it was a lovely night.

And really the point of all of this is just to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIG BEAN. I LOVE YOU. And THANK YOU for still loving me after all these years, even after seeing me curled around a public toilet like a possum and watching me give birth (at which point, you’ve informed me numerous times, my “junk was HUGE”) and catching me (on film, thankyousomuch) asleep with my mouth open, snoring and drooling on the pillow.

I know I’m not always the easiest person to live with, but somehow you’ve managed it all these years and I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have. You’re an amazing father and an amazing friend, you make me laugh EVERY SINGLE DAY, even when you’re being a tool (sometimes because you’re being a tool) and I simply CAN. NOT. imagine my life without you in it.

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