Dill-hole

9.3.2k1

I’m sure I don’t know how I’ve ever had a plan come together. Especially if there’s some level of sneakiness involved. To witness: How badly I fokked up Anna’s bday/weddin’ surprise. A couple people noticed that the email that set up Anna’s surprise sort of, well, included Anna in the list of recipients. Uh … yeah. I meant to do that. What a dope. Some of you might remember the Todd Lindo kar-a-oke surprise a few years back. I’m sure the only reason that worked is because it was two months after his birthday that we sprang the party on him. He couldn’t possibly have been expecting it. I remember torrential rain, a fried fiesta and Ced and Greg singing a duet of Ebony and Ivory that should have turned Lionel Ritchie’s dead career over in the grave. (No, really, it wasn’t that bad.)
Regarding Anna’s aborted party, the planning got off to a bad start. We had intended on springing it next week, and had the monkey grinder, mariachi band and sky writer lined up for then. Rampant Ebola viruses, closed borders and illiterate pilots (Bjeldanes is hard to spell, I grant you that) crossed those off the list one by one. Also cramping the proposed date next week is the small detail that Miss Anna is already in San Diego and no where near Great America.
This maybe ought to plant the idea in your head that I am not the one you want to call when you’re planning your sweetheart’s or best pal’s surprise party. I’ll rent a can of air and blow up the balloons, but that’s where I draw the line.
So the surprise is ruined, but the party is not. Meet up at Zeitgeist and bring quarters: Anna loves the Area 51!

See you there! bye-ee!