Today, the man I married when I was only NINETEEN years old, turned 40.
I still remember when he had hair on the upper part of his head and when we used to “do it” like, 5 times a day (seriously. Five.)
I also remember when he had glasses as big as God.
(p.s. this is the best line ever uttered at a family gathering in regards to the above picture… “Appearing, one night only at the Improv, Antonio the magician. Watch him burn an entire ant hill in less than 10 minutes with his glasses.”)
Here we are, almost 15 years later. He’s balding, I’m fat. How the time flies. It’s crazy. I can’t believe I’m married to a FORTY YEAR OLD MAN and that we have a ONE YEAR OLD BABY GIRL. Just call him Frank Gifford. HA! HA! HA! That was a good one.
Happy Birthday, Fukktonie!! My birthday wish for you is that you stop with the driveby farts that smell like death and disease and that you outlive me because I can not even imagine living in this world without you in it. (But seriously, stop with the farts.)