I've been asked out on a top-secret, super-duper surprise date this Friday. Simon doesn't want me telling anybody because, according to him, then he not only has to live up to whatever hopes I pin on the event, but he has to make sure he doesn't disappoint the hundred other people I tell about it who, by the sparkles in my eyes, will expect something spectacular. Or so he says. (It will be spectacular, though, I just know it.)
And so here I am telling the world against his wishes that I AM GOING ON A TOP-SECRET, SUPER-DUPER SURPRISE DATE WITH MY WONDERFUL BEAU THIS FRIDAY, and I don't feel a shred of guilt about it because he knows I can't keep something like that to myself, so it's his own fault for spilling the beans a good four blogging days before the event. My instructions for Friday are to keep my evening free and wear something loungey--the more comfortable the better (no J-Lo velour track suits allowed). I can't wait!
He's being silly if he thinks it won't be wonderful and I won't be impressed. Heck, sitting next to him and staring at a wall all evening would be a treat, I like him that much. One night a while back he kidnapped me in my p.j.s and drove into the night toward an undisclosed location that turned out to be the Budweiser factory in Fairfield. The huge neon sign glows radioactive red, and when the wind blows just right, steam from the processing plant tumbles down over the lights, creating a spooky fires-of-hell effect. We sat there for at least an hour watching shapes in the demon clouds and listening to, among other things, all forty-four minutes of "Thick As a Brick." Trippy, man. The whole experience was a bit like the plastic bag dance in American Beauty--you either get it and love it or you don't.
And last Thursday I was taken on another surprise date, my instructions being to leave work around 1 p.m., meet Simon at a particular BART station in San Francisco at 1:30, and wear something nice and business casual but that could get a little dirty if necessary. Oooh, intrigue! He picked me up at the station, drove us to Golden Gate Park, and, once out of the car, handed me a hardhat. Nevermind the fact that I love hardhats, what I love even more is when hardhats give me special access to areas the general public is not allowed. In this case, we roamed the construction site of a building three years in the making that doesn't open officially until next month. Simon had worked his connections to get us a private tour of the area by a higher-up in the planning department. Cool, huh? In an effort to avoid getting anyone in trouble, I'm not mentioning the name of the building, but the photo below contains a hint...
And not only did we have hardhats, but we also got temporary guest badges that allowed us to roam unimpeded through the bowels of the building and some of the yet-to-be-unveiled rooms upstairs. In my hardhat, kitten heels, and skirt slit up to here, I rocked the architect look like no one's business. At one point the building's director, a stern woman with, curiously, a red lollipop, told us that we weren't allowed to look at what we were looking at and we'd better scoot on out of there. Our tour guide--who built the building--just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Yeah, whatever." As far as I was concerned, getting in trouble was essential to the experience--proof that we had indeed ducked under the ropes and evaded the authorities and breached secured areas. It was all very Sydney Bristow, minus the tranq guns.
So now join me, will you?, in getting inordinately excited for my date this Friday! Will there be celebrities, will there be air travel, will I be crowned princess of my own private Caribbean island? Will there be hardhats and lollipops and tranq guns? Time will tell...Previous Next