The husband and I went to the Masquerade Birthday Ball I blogged about earlier this week. It was a blast. People dressed in their best. Drinks flowed full (thanks to an outrageously hosted bar). Laughter swirled around the room blending with the pounding of drums and feet.
Did I mention the cake was awesome? My sister-in-law made it, so maybe I’m a little biased. I think she has mad-talent. There was a white sheet cake in back for the guests, then two masks propped up in front (one for the birthday girl, another for the birthday boy).
We seriously danced the night away. My friend closed the place down. Atta-girl. Thirty’s a tough age to turn, I think. I wouldn’t know…I’m not quite there yet. I’ll let you know how hard it truly is in August. Here’s a picture of the thirty-year-old herself, the husband, and me.
And then here’s another of the two of us. The pic is not the greatest. We’re not really that white. Trust me. Okay, okay, maybe the husband is…but he’s Irish so pale white or red skin is kind of expected, isn’t it? (I’m so getting in trouble for that comment later! hehe)