Why I Hate Surprises

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.

 

 

 

 

5 thoughts on “Why I Hate Surprises

  1. Love this. I’ll bet your minister’s wife probably secretly used the “F” word on occasion, but wouldn’t admit it. On my 40th my husband arranged for a male stripper to come to the party given for me. In front of my mother-in-law, my 15-year-old daughter, and assorted other relatives. I have since destroyed the photos of me sitting there with the stripper’s underwear draped over my head.

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