I’m horrible with surprises. I mean, I’m okay with surprising other people with parties, gifts, acts of service. It’s when someone is trying to surprise me that I don’t tend to do too well.
Don’t tell me that you bought me something for Christmas or my birthday AND heaven forbid do NOT hide it in the same area in which I live (home, shed, yard, etc . . . ). Because I will find it. I will.
Do not look in that box! I will. Do not open that closet! I will. Do not look in the trunk! I will. That is a promise. I can’t help myself.
I remember as a child I snooped in my parent’s bedroom, under their bed and found a box that contained a few of my Christmas presents—ordered from some type of nic-knack catalogue. It wasn’t my fault I found it—my mother didn’t hide it very well. Also, I ALWAYS knew what I was getting from my grandparents for Christmas. My grandmother put our presents in gift boxes and would simply tape the sides down, not wrap them, just tape them. I always peeked.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I do like being surprised. But if you’re going to surprise me, don’t even hint at it. Don’t even say, “Oh, I got you something good for your birthday! You’re gonna love it!” I will go crazy until I figure out what it is. I will search for it and then I will hound you with questions until you give in and you tell me. (I will love it, by the way).
The reason I bring all of this up, is that I’m reading The Hunger Games. The book is fantastic. I have hardly been able to put the sucker down. (Yes, it’s that good). I have to say it is one of my favorites this year. I started reading it on my own Tuesday evening. Read a great deal Wednesday morning and then I read a little to Scott. He really liked it as well and wanted me to keep reading it to him. (Yes, it’s that good). Keep in mind, Scott is not a reader. AND if he does read a book, he likes it to be non-fiction. He’s always saying, “Is it real?” I say, “No.” and he’s like, “Then what’s the point?” He doesn’t like made-up stuff, which kind of sucks since all I write is made-up stuff (fiction). He’s very supportive of my writing. He tells me I’m a wonderful writer, but as far as reading any of my completed novels, he hasn’t. I’m okay with that. He’s not my intended audience anyway—I do not write for cynical old men.
Anyway, back to the point of this whole blog (and yes I DO have a point). The Hunger Games. We read for hours together yesterday. It was quite pleasant. We nearly finished it. We have about 50 pages left of this remarkable story of hunting/survival/humanity and love. This is Scott’s week of working the graveyard shift. He had to go to work at 7:30pm last night. We had 50 pages left. I promised him I would wait until today to finish it with him—together.
Now, I feel I have done quite well . Normally, I would have just read it all and then reread it with him and he wouldn’t know a thing (I’m tricky that way). The book sits on the nightstand next to my bed beckoning me to read it without him. I’m trying to ignore that it is there. Because . . . drum roll please . . . I have NOT read the last 50 pages. I have been strong. I have abstained from reading on without him.
BUT, I did peek at the last page and because I sort of know how it ends, I’m okay in waiting for him to wake up today so we can finish it together.
Hey, one page is actually pretty good in the whole scheme of things . . . at least it is for me.