Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

2004-01-19 at 10:20 p.m.

That is to say, I am getting together with several girlfriends this Saturday night, and we are going for drinks (which I just mistakenly typed as "drunks") to (and yes, I'm spelling this name correctly) Hung Far Low, and then on to The Magic Gardens, which is apparently the best strip club in Portland.

Portland has the highest strip-club-per-capita ratio, I've heard, in the entire US. And I've never been to one. And I've mentioned this fact to my husband several times, along with the small tidbit that I would like to go, and could we go?

And we've never gone.

I mentioned this fact to another married friend of mine who happened to mention she was in the same place, and her birthday was the day before mine and we should totally go for our birthdays.

Might I mention, this entire conversation was in front of both of our husbands.

But this was weeks ago, and in the intervening time, after weekend-plotting deviously done in front of our husbands while we were all watching football together, the plans have become set. We're meeting at Hobos, moving to Hung Far Low, then The Magic Gardens (stripping!) and then the guys will pick us up and we'll figure out what we want to do from there.

So tonight, Andrew and I were sitting there, watching "American Idol" (shut up), and he asks me what I want to do for my birthday.

"Uhhhh..." I say, taken aback. "You were there when we were making plans? The girls are going to Hung Far Low, and then the strip clubs?"

And the conversation goes downhill from there.

Apparently, it causes marital discord when one wants to go to strip clubs. Or even just a strip club. So not sure what happened here.

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