Saturday, May 19, 2012
I hate surprises. Perhaps it was a childhood that veered between the idyllic and the volatile, with not quite enough in between. Perhaps it's just that I'm a dedicated, unregenerate, evil control freak. Whatever. It's the just the way it is.
Still, we had a surprise party last night, and by that I mean that two weeks ago, Mr. Muscato sat me down and told me he was having a party for my birthday, that he'd organized it to start while I was off at yet another office-sponsored cocktail extravaganze, that this was the caterer's menu and that that was the guestlist, and would I please find a way to not come home until I received a missed call at about 7:30 p.m., and for God sake's try and look surprised.
Which I did, in a far more convincing way than any of the stiffs that Philips hired as party-guest record-cover extras (and there's a narrow corner of the show-business, no?) for the LP above. It all came off quite well, and while I still loathe being surprised, my cold heart was really rather touched by the glee that so many of the guests (a great many of whom had come on from the earlier, business fête) enjoyed at having "fooled" me for the past week. Now, of course, I have to go back to work tomorrow and undoubtedly spend a great deal of time congratulating them ("boy, you really did get me, didn't you?") on their cleverness.
The rest of the time I'll have to spend planning my revenge on Mr. Muscato. Oh, he told me about the party, yes - but he didn't run either the flowers or the music by me in advance. Have I mentioned that I might, just might, have a few teeny-tiny hospitality-related control issues?