the Hippo Brigade

Surprise

5 Comments

January 13, 2011

I’d like to think that I like surprises. Who doesn’t like the prospect of bright and sparkly surprise? The idea that someone out there cares about you so much that they’ve wielded some popsicle sticks into the shape of a trivet with a glue gun and sequins just for you. SURPRISE!

Or SURPRISE, perhaps they think you are so neat that they’ve chartered a private gondola ride along the back bay for you complete with crooning Italians.

Maybe you have a lover that loves you so deeply that  SURPRISE they’ve tattooed your name on their forearm in comic sans. Swoon.

But for me, I like the idea of surprises. I like the gentle nudge of a surprise, but don’t you go doing something that I don’t fully approve of.

I probably don’t want to spend a day SURPRISE!! painting my own pottery.

Or SURPRISE! We flew your best friend in from out of town. But no one told you that we haven’t spoken in 3 years, but I’m pretty sure that I read on Facebook that she was involved in some shady-ness, and I don’t think her parole officer wants her to leave town. But super, now I have to spend 4 days with her and pretend to agree when she says, “it wasn’t mine, I swear. You believe me, right? It was this guy’s that I met at a disco-jam party, where we all wear pajamas and pretend we’re characters from 90′s sit-coms. I went as the original mom from Fresh Prince of Bel Air.”

And I have to do that sympathetic head-noddy-thing where it looks like I’m agreeing, but really, I’m just planning my escape. Now, if I could just create a distraction…

Not a fan of surprises.

Here’s what I do like: I’d like you to go ahead with your surprise, but then I’d like to secretly find out what it is.

Like if you want to plan a surprise party for me, you should accidentally leave the guest list some where I can find it. For instance, in the back of your pantry where you stash your chocolate.

You’d be on the phone (talking to the caterer of course, wink, wink) and I’d be searching for something crunchy and sweet, and I’d find your list, I’d take a picture of it, and replace it, all while shoving my face full of chocolate macaroons (they’re the new cupcake, and clearly you got the memo).

So not only is my belly full of warm chocolate, but now I’m prepared for a surprise. I know just enough information to still be semi-surprised, and that’s just how I like it.

Because I know that I have to spend at least an hour on my make-up and hair everyday before I leave the house, and I’m certainly not going to wear my unflattering minky kelly green sweatpants, that I lovingly refer to as my leg-socks.

And I’ll stop picking my zits in the middle of the day just in case I get a surprising knock at my door.

It’s pretty much a win-win for both of us. You get to show me how much you love me by thinking that you’re surprising the crap out of me, and I won’t be so surprised that I actually crap my pants.

Win.

Win.