"Shhhh," he insists. "You'll find out tomorrow. When we get there."
Despite my protests, he does not tell me any more. I sleep, full of giddy anticipation. Frankly, I don't care what we're doing, I'm excited to finally spend time with my studying-obsessed husband. We could be going to a strip club for all I care, I just want to be with him.
So, Saturday, dressed in a ragged denim mini and a little t-shirt (also known as "clothes you don't want your boss to see you in"), Matt takes me for a drive. And so, I pester him, but I have no idea where we're going.
Until we pull up in front of a pretty suburban house that has pink balloons in the front. Pink Balloons. I start to get the vague idea that maybe, just maybe, this is not a romantic date with my husband, but a surprise party for me.
I head up to the front door, and MY ENTIRE OFFICE is there. With liquor. And delicious dip-things to be eaten with chips. And presents. And everyone was wearing paperclip necklaces. I felt loved.
And the "prefile" accordian folder that held my "to file" pile? Yeah, it was there. And it was turned into a pinata. Full of chocolate. That I got to beat with a hurling stick.
And in case you didn't get enough:
There was also grilling outside. And pirate jokes. And a long, interesting game of memory. Inwhich I kicked Matt's butt.
So yeah, that was a good day.
But Matt owes me a romantic date, don'tcha think?