Aidan, my son, threw his girlfriend a surprise birthday party last week. A surprise DINNER party no less, for 18 of her girlfriends and one guy friend. It was an ambitious undertaking for someone who’d never hosted a dinner party of any size before (university pizza parties don’t count). He went with a Middle Eastern theme, and made zucchini fritters with tatziki, homemade hummus, marinated chicken kebabs, couscous with lemon and mint, and a cucumber and tomato salad, finishing it off with a pink velvet cake from Dufflet and pink champagne. Jamie was thrilled, and I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder.

I’m not usually big on surprises. I’m fine with planning them, but don’t especially like being on the receiving end, because I’m a total control freak that way. I dread people jumping out at me, for whatever reason. If there’s a surprise in the works, then I should know about it, so that I can clean the house, dress appropriately, steel myself for the inevitable screams when I turn on the lights, feign appreciation, compose a short yet gracious speech of thanks, and try to hide my relief when everyone leaves.

Surprises can go terribly wrong. There’s the woman who came home, saw people in her house though the window, and called the police. the man who proposed by popping a diamond ring into his girlfriend’s drink, only to watch her knock it back and nearly choke on it. And there’s the guy who made a video to play at a party for his wife on their first anniversary, and mistakenly played a sex tape (their own, which made matters worse).

There’s another surprise taking place this week. Jamie, Aidan’s girlfriend, has a doozie planned for HIS birthday. I know what it is, but obviously I can’t tell you until it happens. I’ve been the repository for so many secrets that I’m exhausted, and afraid to talk to anyone for any length of time for fear of blurting something out. In any case, stand by, And may all your surprises be good ones.

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