Mr. P’s Special Day
On this day [redacted] years ago, Mr. Pistol was born in [redacted], and I sure am happy for that!
His mom wore what she describes as full makeup during labor. I’ve seen pictures of her sitting up in her hospital bed–pre-Mr. P–smiling nervously and looking very much like Princess Diana, if Princess Diana were an Olympic ice skater, or a beauty queen. Full makeup is no joke. Mr. Pistol comes from the South.
I didn’t put on as good of a birthday as usual. Female troubles, etc. But dude has been on a bit of a pre-birthday bender, so he wasn’t up for a whole lot.
I took us to Marlow and Sons for oyster happy hour. Festive, right? Except, of all possible days, guess which day they chose to discontinue oyster happy hour, forever? Yep: Mr. P’s birthday. Motherfuckers.
Well, we had oysters anyway, obvs. Six Blue Points and six Duxburys. They were excellent. It makes you sound like a yuppie when you say the oysters were excellent, but I can’t really describe them. Like butter? Silk? Like some briny sea brine, except sweet? It’s like that Magnetic Fields song: they were like oysters. Next we had a cabbage and apple salad with a lot of parsley and fancy salt in it, and a country pate plate. Then we split a muffaletta. It was a pretty boss birthday dinner.
One caveat: the fucking service, as usual. Bunch of zombies. Way to sound like a yuppie again.
Anyways, Mr. Pistol was super-guapo in his red checked cowboy shirt and good-dirty hair. I’m a lucky girl. Cause of all that, and lots more.
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