It was my 40-something birthday. I was married to the the husband whose name shall not be mentioned. As we prepared for work, there were no happy birthday wishes, no card, not a single freaking flower. I was pissed.
We went to our jobs. No flowers at work, no card, no phone call, zip, nada. I was working up a tornado of anger and hurt for a full workday. When I left work, I had a coulple of stops to make on the way home.
By the time I came in the front door, the sad smoke of hurt feelings and anger had blossomed into a hot fire of sarcasm and rage. Beyond the dark dining room, I could see him in the light of the kitchen. I girded my loins and whatever else was girdable, and began a slow, pissed-off saunter into the kitchen, singing slowly but loudly:
“Happy fucking birthday to me. Happy fucking birthday to me. Happy fucking birthday, dear Linda. Happy fuck-“
As I entered the dining room, all the lights came on and I heard “Surprise!!!!”
The dining room table was piled high with presents, and there was a lovely cake. Best of all was the roomful of friends, neighbors, and of course, the Minister of our church and his wife.
I don’t remember much after that.
But I discovered two things: I hated surprises, and you can make a big ass of yourself and not die of embarrisment.