Disclaimer: I am going to come off as a spoiled brat here, and I am.
In order to appreciate the magnitude of FAIL associated with my birthday celebration it is necessary to appreciate the level of expectation associated with it. At that time I was still under house arrest and the hours ticked by ever so slowly. Even though I absolutely cherished special moments with Stinks, every day felt like a week. Sure, I’d lose entire weeks in the sense that I didn’t know what month it was, but every moment stretched on. It was disconcerting to say the least. Thus, I had plenty of time to fantasize about what my special day would bring; I knew at least it would bring some time out of the house because Mr. Aggie’s parents were coming to babysit.
So the day finally arrives. Mr. Aggie has made plans for us to go out for a nice dinner, necessitating a shopping trip on my part. I am able to find a nice outfit after much searching so at least I’ve got that going for me.
After I got back (sidenote: sorry for the shift in tenses but present-tense storytelling annoys me) the Mr. had to go out for a little while to get me a card. It kind of takes the fun out of a card somehow when the person has to leave at the last minute to pick one out but it’s not really his fault. He knew that he was not allowed to deviate from his commute one bit while I was home alone with the babe.
At that point, I was also eager to find out what my actual gift would be. I told him previously that I wanted to be surprised; that I hated having to tell people what to buy for my birthday. I’m high maintenance like that I suppose, but there’s just no fun in picking out your own gifts. As the day wore on I got less patient (which was cause for concern since I have a remarkably low supply to begin with.)
So eventually we get ready for dinner, the babysitters arrive and we hit the road on the way to unknown culinary delights. I still don’t know what the present is, but there’s a stack of birthday cards now waiting for me to open them when we get back from dinner (one from him, one from Andrew, and one from his parents).
We’re a little late leaving for dinner so Mr. Aggie calls the restaurant to let them know we’ll be arriving about ten minutes after our scheduled reservation. The hostess then informs him that we don’t have a reservation. Mr. Aggie made one–we have the phone records to back us up–but that doesn’t change the reality that it’s 7:00 on a very important Saturday night and chances are I’m going to be way overdressed for my romantic interlude at Dairy Queen.
–Freaking present tense. Gets me every time.–
We decided to soldier on to our original destination because they promised to get us in as quickly as possible and because he let me know it was seafood (!). We were told to wait in the lounge area while they tried to work us in; it ended up taking an hour to get us a table. In the lounge, food was served, drinks flowed, and a moderately talented piano player lambasted his captives with Muzak-esque interpretations of eighties classics. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Ace of Base, John Tesh-style. The lounge was quite small and the piano quite..enthusiastic..so we had to almost yell to even have a conversation.
Eventually we got a table, and since this is getting so long and boring I’ll simply say the server was extremely odd (she made an awkward joke about dancing on the table) and not very good at her job and the food was only adequate. It was at this point that Mr. Aggie informed me that this was my birthday present and that I had told him that a nice dinner out was all that I wanted. He could very well be telling the truth, though if I ever said such a thing it was obviously a blatant lie. How ‘s it a present for ME when someone else gets to eat/drink as much as I do? (Picture me stomping my feet while I say that in a high-pitched whine).
The whole debacle took so long that I didn’t even get a birthday dessert (tear) because I had to get home and pump before I died.