I have tried THREE TIMES to publish this post, and it hasn’t shown up on the Reader yet. I expect the third time to be the charm. If not, there’s a bottle of Tequila in the fridge and I know what to do with it: bash my computer screen in. Grrrrr!
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Birthdays, Beaches, and Bingo Wings
The Mister has a birthday coming up soon and I’m trying to figure out what to do with him.
Wait. I know what to do with him. Let me rephrase.
The Mister has a birthday coming up soon and I’m trying to figure out where to take him to celebrate.
Last year we rented a condo on the coast from some folks who had yet to come out of the (closed, locked) closet: I (unlocked and) opened the closet door anyway, of course. (Ever resourceful, I am.) All that was in there was a washing machine and dryer. But since it was labeled as being for ‘personal use’, I just figured someone had a thing for the spin cycle. Or maybe they go in the laundry closet to Snuggle or Bounce when they’re suffering from static cling? Hmmm… The mind wanders.
Anywhoo…
Last year we chilled (actually, it was unseasonably warm the weekend we were there) by the water for my husband’s birthday, where we rehearsed our own balcony scene before trekking along the beach with the dog.
We took turns flying a kite (it was *his* birthday present, but I flew it too!), hung out in a hot tub (sorry, can’t share; those pictures are slightly pornographic), and discovered a whole new meaning for morning wood:
Then, in the evenings, we watched this…
And mussed this: (Yes, that is a water bottle and not one, but two, bottles of lube you see on the night stands. We take our various hydration needs seriously around here, thankyouverymuch.)
But I digress.
The point is, the Mister has a birthday coming up and I need to figure out what to do with him. (You know what I mean.) And I’m sort of freaking out. Not because I only have about two weeks to come up with something spectacular. Not because last year’s excursion turned out (rather unexpectedly) to be ~ according to my spouse ~ The Best Getaway Ever, and now I feel like I have to somehow ‘top’ (heh) that experience. (Augh! The pressure!) Not because it’s a birthday ending in zero. (It’s actually a birthday ending in three.) Nope. Nuh-unh. None of the above.
I’m freaking out because ten years ago I gave (the man who would become) my husband my phone number, and he called me, and we’ve essentially been together ever since. I’m freaking out because when I gave my life partner my phone number ten years ago, I unwittingly gave him the best birthday present he would ever receive: ME. (Yes, I truly am that amazing.) I’m freaking out because all of that happened ten years ago. Ten. Years. Ago. A decade! And isn’t a decade supposed to feel like a century? Or a millennium? Or something? But it doesn’t! I’m freaking out because ten years feels more like ten months. Or ten days. Or ten minutes. And I’m freaking out because even though it’s HIS birthday, it marks a ten year anniversary (of sorts) for us, which means I’M getting old. (Holy saggy boobs, Batman!) And everyone knows that when you get old, your vajayjay loses its elasticity and your labia lips start flapping around between your thighs like fucking (literally: fucking) Bingo Wings, and the next thing you know you’re being asked to donate that extra skin to some guy in the hospital burn unit who needs a new pair of earlobes or something.
That’s why I’m freaking out.
Gah!
So go ahead and peruse the pics in this post. Meanwhile, I’m going to contemplate the curious configurations of ‘morning wood’ and get my freak on.
Erm…
Freak out, I mean. Freak out.
Ack!
And then I’m going to figure out what to do with my husband for his birthday.
(And if you have suggestions, please feel free to voice them. Unlike the poor bastard in the burn unit, I’m all ears.)