Happy Birthday, Geno!

Geno, one of my best friends, turned 3_ on Thursday. On Friday morning, his girlfriend Shannon invited Lynnette and I to dinner on Saturday night. I changed out of my baseball uniform in the UH parking structure; my hat hair was mad strong. I picked up Lynnette at Ala Moana and we drove to dinner.

"You know unko going eat 'em later."

“You know unko going eat ’em later.”

Happy birthday 3_th, Geno!

Happy birthday 3_th, Geno!

Shannon didn’t tell Geno that she invited a few other people to dinner, so he was surprised to see Lynnette and I sitting there waiting for him. When Jay showed up a few minutes later, Geno was really stoked. The only thing that could have made the night better for Geno would have been for Matty – his favorite Higa – to show up as well. Screw you guys. Like always, it was a great time filled with great conversation. We talked about our kids, what happens when unfriendly dogs attack, stunning betrayals, possessed people not understanding photograph technology, and holy crap how the hell are we in our mid-30s?

Geno is one of my oldest friends. Like our mutual friend Brent, Geno has a knack for saying borderline off-putting things in such a manner that it’s difficult to get mad at him. So last night when he shook my hand and gave me a hug but immediately asked “Where’s Matty?” while pretending to cry, I just shook my head. When he asked me to translate what the sushi chefs were saying because I “grew up in Japan,” I nearly finished the joke for him. That joke is so old it’s already gone through puberty. When I remarked on Lynnette’s drinking pace and the increased likelihood that I might get chance, and Lynnette said “No, because–” and Geno said “…you have E.D.,” I could only laugh. Jerk. Full Disclosure: I do not have E.D.

Thanks, Shannon for including us in celebrating Geno’s birthday. Happy birthday, Geno. I hope you make it a four-day!

Drunk Lynnette is 300% times less predictable than Sober Lynnette. And I like it!

Drunk Lynnette is 300% times less predictable than Sober Lynnette. And I like it!

Lynnette's milkshake brought me to McDonald's.

Lynnette’s milkshake brought me to McDonald’s.

Lynnette had two beers and three shots of sake which planted her firmly in drunk territory. I got a feel for it when her laughter got louder and more frequent. I was sure of it when I saw her tongue pop out in the middle of a smile when I accused her of being drunk. When we got in the car I turned on the radio and said “I’m going to get serenaded tonight!” Drunk Lynnette likes to sing 80s pop and 90s rock. “I’m not going to sing tonight,” she said. “I’m not drunk, just… tipsy.” We talked for a bit and then Madonna’s “Crazy For You” came over the speakers, and that was all it took. I got my serenade.

We approached the final stoplight on our drive home and the McDonald’s glowed brightly in the dark night. “Milkshake?” Lynnette said. “Raaawwr!” (in some relationships, roaring is a way of answering in the affirmative) I raaawwred. “What flavor?” Lynnette asked coyly. “Uhh…” I said, to match her coyness. “Stawberry?” she said. “YES!” I said. We got our milkshake and drunk Lynnette took a bunch of pictures of me drinking it. She was giggling the entire time, flash going off intermittently while the car was moving through our sub-division. “My hands aren’t sturdy/stable,” she mumbled. I guess I might as well go for symmetry.


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