It’s my husband’s birthday today! In addition to all the Facebook love people have been showing, I thought it would be fun to repost this from his 50th birthday. I was past my due date with Nathan and needed this very fun night out, too. Happy birthday Mike!
For my husband’s birthday, I took him to Chopstix, a dueling piano bar in Queen Anne. I wasn’t sure what to expect from a dueling piano bar, like some concerto throw-down with one guy pointing to another saying, “You and me pal. Right here on E minor. Bring it.”
The scene was loud and flashy. There were two bachelorette parties going on. One was obviously planned by the Latter Day Saints and the other one by Shasty McNasty. The more conservative group’s bride-to-be donned a sweet “Bride” sash and a small tulle veil. We sat next to the Shasty McNasty crew, their table swarmed with booze and penis-paraphernalia. There were candy-necklaces, straws with the “business end” up, mini and mega-sized lollipops. If my mom was uneasy with my penis cake pan, she certainly would have been freaked out at the cock-worship going on at table 3. (That’s why Lifetime Television for Women makes such a great mama-san-sitter.) I’m sure that somewhere in China there’s a factory doling these out and some worker shaking his head at a penis-pop thinking, “These crazy Americans.”
Mike wore his birthday gift, a hat I had made during one of my mall-walks with mama-san. Maury Povich should add this to his “Who’s my baby-daddy?” shows. If only proving paternity could be this easy.
During the show, a member of the Me So Horny Brigade came over and asked me if Mike could participate in a scavenger hunt going on which required the Bride to kiss the first guy she saw with his hat on backwards.
“Oh please do!” I yelled over the music. I grabbed my camera but only caught the end shot. Damn.
The show continued with more requests. I placed $25 on the table with my song request saying, “It’s my husband Mike’s 50th birthday. He’s a ham.” So after a few Billy Joel and Elton John renditions, Mike was called onto the stage.
When our son descends into his inevitable streaking phase, I know he got it from his father.