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Since we've had so many Apolyton birthdays, I thought I would share what I did to my wife for her 30th birthday.
Now, you have to understand I am older than her, and I started getting grey hairs in my mid-20's - not alot, but I definitely had some. So there I am, with my head in her lap one time, and I feel these little very light tugs on my head. I ask her what she's doing, and she answers "I'm counting grey hairs" with a lilt in her voice. "Ha, ha" I answer in a very flat voice.
She keeps this running joke up over the next decade. I inform her it's wearing a bit thin, and then I finally get fed up and warn her that if she keeps it up, I will pluck her first grey hair, mount in behind a small square of pre-drilled scrap ballistic glass, and mount it on the head board of our bed with one way bolts. She quits for a few months, and then restarts. I bide my time.
Five days before her 30th birthday, we are talking to a close friend while I am brushing her hair. Yes, you guessed it. There is this long, white hair. I pluck it, exclaiming "Yes, yes the first grey hair." She wants it back. There is no way that is going to happen. Little does she know that our friend is in on the big plan.
My job is to deliver her. They are "arranging" a 30th birthday party. I sneak the hair to the friend, mounted in a small plastic card holder with black background, and one of the worst photos I ever took of my wife when she was twentyish, where she looks like she is not the swiftest person in the universe - i.e. as in blond jokes except that she is not blond. The picture is absolutely terrible. She has no idea I still have it.
So her birthday arrives. We are going out to a movie with the friend and his GF. I call, they aren't ready. I delay, sneak a second call. They still aren't ready. I fake going to the bathroom. We arrive late, something I normally LOATHE, and instead of being all in a rush I'm saying we'll just go to a later showing. My wife is clueless.
We arrive, and knock on the door. It opens, and there are our friends. The hair and the picture are the centerpiece, in a black cardboard coffin. There are various funeral-style decorations, mostly borrowed from Halloween parties, and three of our friends front and center, who break out in the song "Happy birthday" to a funeral dirge.
My wife turns around, plants both hands in claw grips firmly on my chest, and informs me in a loud whisper "I'm going to f**king kill you." The party proceeds.
Share your stories.
Now, you have to understand I am older than her, and I started getting grey hairs in my mid-20's - not alot, but I definitely had some. So there I am, with my head in her lap one time, and I feel these little very light tugs on my head. I ask her what she's doing, and she answers "I'm counting grey hairs" with a lilt in her voice. "Ha, ha" I answer in a very flat voice.
She keeps this running joke up over the next decade. I inform her it's wearing a bit thin, and then I finally get fed up and warn her that if she keeps it up, I will pluck her first grey hair, mount in behind a small square of pre-drilled scrap ballistic glass, and mount it on the head board of our bed with one way bolts. She quits for a few months, and then restarts. I bide my time.
Five days before her 30th birthday, we are talking to a close friend while I am brushing her hair. Yes, you guessed it. There is this long, white hair. I pluck it, exclaiming "Yes, yes the first grey hair." She wants it back. There is no way that is going to happen. Little does she know that our friend is in on the big plan.
My job is to deliver her. They are "arranging" a 30th birthday party. I sneak the hair to the friend, mounted in a small plastic card holder with black background, and one of the worst photos I ever took of my wife when she was twentyish, where she looks like she is not the swiftest person in the universe - i.e. as in blond jokes except that she is not blond. The picture is absolutely terrible. She has no idea I still have it.
So her birthday arrives. We are going out to a movie with the friend and his GF. I call, they aren't ready. I delay, sneak a second call. They still aren't ready. I fake going to the bathroom. We arrive late, something I normally LOATHE, and instead of being all in a rush I'm saying we'll just go to a later showing. My wife is clueless.
We arrive, and knock on the door. It opens, and there are our friends. The hair and the picture are the centerpiece, in a black cardboard coffin. There are various funeral-style decorations, mostly borrowed from Halloween parties, and three of our friends front and center, who break out in the song "Happy birthday" to a funeral dirge.
My wife turns around, plants both hands in claw grips firmly on my chest, and informs me in a loud whisper "I'm going to f**king kill you." The party proceeds.
Share your stories.
ACK!
being 35 is cool. way better then trying to be 21 again
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