Eat, Drink, and Be Arrested

I wish I could say my life was a picnic.  A bright Victorian picnic where people play croquet on the lawn and wear hats that match their dresses, with blooming flowers and butterflies floating on the breeze.  I wish I could say my life was white irises on the mantle and roses blooming in the garden.  But since I can't, I'm gonna tell y'all about Husband's birthday.

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.

The first fiasco was the cake.  I mean, look at this thing.  It looks like they let a legally blind marmot put that lettering on.  And the cherries used to decorate it were not dried before being put on top, so they immediately bled all over the white frosting on the cake.  I am still fighting with the company about this cake, because I'll be damned if I will accept sub-par cake at any time, let alone Husband's birthday.

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.

Of course, that is what started all the problems.  Because he could not wait until we got home to open it.  He had to open that Nerf gun right there in the bar, and put it together.  I would have scolded him more, but frankly, there was more joy on his face when putting that toy together than I ever saw on our wedding day, so I just let it slide.  Instead, I watched as he loaded it, and then began to unload it.

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.

This continued in our little corner until our waiter came up to me, having been patient with our rowdy asses for this long, and told me that should the firing of projectiles continue, we would be kicked out on our rude behinds, and the police would be called if we did not comply.  I took matters into my own hands, and took the gun away, putting it under my chair, but I then spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from going for it again until I just put it in the trunk of the car.

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.