I am officially a trophy wife.

My husband is an old, old man.

Last night, our friends gathered to celebrate his 40th birthday. But even more importantly, we were there to celebrate that we were NOT forty. I remember about six years ago, a friend of ours was mourning her thirtieth birthday and found great comfort in the fact that, no matter how old she got, she would never be older than Dowlan.

Did I mention I am still in my twenties, even if for a few short months? That makes me a trophy wife, by my estimation.

Earlier this summer, I was trying to figure out how in the world we would throw three birthday parties in ten days' time with no money. So we held Dixie's at a free event and fed everyone cheaply, we held Charlie's at our house at a time when no one would expect us to feed them, but those were kid parties. A fortieth party should be big.

So I decided to have a 'hard times' party.

Featured were the hobo costume contest with Boone's Farm apple wine for prizes (genuine hobo fragrance optional):






A make-your-own cardboard sign station:



BYOCG (bring your won canned good) to make hobo stew, eaten out of real tin cans:



And lots of drinking out of paper bags:




As for the cake, it was the finest any convenience store had to offer:






After it was done, I slept harder and more soundly than any hobo ever dreamed of. And this morning I woke up to the voice of Dixie saying, "Mommy the children's tummies are not full. They are empty. Is it all right if we have Moon Pies for breakfast?"