New York Shitty Day Starter: Happy Birthday Mr. Heather!

Yes folks, it’s that time of year again. And with each August 25th yours truly endeavors to find some new way of demonstrating her affection. Over the years this has entailed:

1. Refusing to undo the chain on the front door (on a 100 degree day) until he showed me the champagne he purchased (so as to ascertain if it was of acceptable quality) and handed it over.

2. Giving him a photo album of “candid boudoir photography” I found at the junk for him to peruse over his first cup of morning coffee. It had the same effect on him as it did on me: he lost his appetite.

And much, much more.

Believe it or not the Mister takes all of this in good stride. He has learned, as many marrieds can attest, that silence is anything but golden when it comes to one’s spouse: it means you are in deep shit. Torment is a sign of interest. In my case it’s how I show I care. But I digress.

I have spent the better part of a month trying to concoct this year’s bit of chicanery. I thought about changing the locks and going for a walk but given the mild weather I decided against it. I considered replacing his regular coffee with decaf and waiting for the inevitable caffeine-withdrawal to work its magic— but that struck me as being too mean. What’s more, I have pulled this one before (albeit on someone else): it can backfire. In my case I ended up being on the receiving end of my mark’s decaffeinated D.T.’s. Not fun.

The sad news is, dear readers, I have drawn a blank. So an item from the New York Shitty archives will have to suffice. Which brings me to the image gracing this post. It was with this item that I pulled what is arguably the most diabolical prank I have ever perpetrated. It came from a pack of Polaroids a friend of mine found behind a movie sound stage on Diamond Street. Those who are in the know can and will attest the gent in this photo bears more than a passing resemblance to the Mister. So I decided to have a little fun and email this image to our respective families. Hilarity ensued.

Happy birthday, Mr. Heather. Here’s to another year— putting up with (and facilitating) my shit. May you have many more! You are the Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote. Or perhaps vice versa? In any case, you have taught me a few things about Greenpoint politics.

This is for you.

Miss Heather