Don't tell him I told you, but the domestic partner is 35 today.
He's not big on birthdays or all the attention that comes with them—in fact, we had dinner last night with friends and he wouldn't let me tell them his birthday was just moments away—but this is my blog and I love him and I just want to share with the the world how happy I am he was born. And that we met. And that he loves me back. And that he folds our laundry so nicely. Seriously, this boy has a FREAKISH talent for making all the shirts and towels in the house look like they're on display in a high-end department store. His mad folding skilz are just a small part of the many ways he really classes up the joint.
In other news, we ran nine miles on Saturday. But Matthew wasn't there with his camera to provide any photographic proof. Then the domestic partner and I helped his best friend move into a charming apartment within walking distance (well, summer walking distance ... I'd hate to make the trudge in February) of our condo. After a hot shower and a long nap, we had the aforementioned non-birthday dinner with our friends and then went to a beautiful-gay-boy party in Boystown. And the guest list was actually populated with nice beautiful gay boys. Plus one hunky shirtless bartender. He also seemed nice, but he was hunky and shirtless so who cares? (And don't get the impression that we habitually go to parties where hot men walk around shirtless—we are not even remotely that interesting—because this was a fund-raiser for a friend who's doing the AIDS Ride next weekend (go here if you want to sponsor him) and the hunky shirtless bartender was just a lure to get everyone to show up and cough up some sponsorship money. And it totally worked!)
On today's actual-birthday docket: family brunch, presents, birthday dinner, show tunes. And a couple demure pecks on the cheek to show him that I still love him despite his rapidly advancing age. I'm a good boyfriend like that.