The Time I Planned The BEST. SURPRISE. EVER.

After MT’s adventure across the USofA on Saturday (including an unplanned visit to Lala-Land), we played it low-key and hung out by the pool all day Sunday to let her get on Cali-time.

(At least we didn’t have matching bikinis, too)

((if you haven’t already, READ THESE BOOKS, NOW!))

Our stay at the pool was briefer than we’d have liked, since my fair skin and desire to not contract skin cancer held a pretty strong argument against everyone else’s wishes.  (Also, I’m bossy.)  We did get some quality entertainment from eavesdropping on the other pool visitors (whaaat??) – there are some real characters in our complex, that’s for sure.

I had an insanely huge surprise planned for MT’s trip, which she knew about but didn’t know what exactly it was. All I told her was that it was THE COOLEST THING EVER.  Like, life-changing. An epic experience that would be retold at holiday dinners for years to come. Monuments would be erected in this Surprise’s memory.

Ok that’s stretching it. (But not much.)

The only issue with my Surprise Of The Millennium was that there was no way to guarantee it could be pulled off. No matter the amount of planning or phone calls or selling of body parts (last resort) I did, the arrangements could not be solidified. All we could do was show up and cross our fingers.

My Type-A left brained-ness has been well-documented here on Once Upon a (L)ime.  By now y’all know how much of an obsessive control freak I am. So naturally, this whole “no guarantees” thing drove me mad. Especially when my reputation as Best Sister Ever was at stake.  People’s lives were in jeopardy here.

To kill some time before the Surprise Of The Millennium was due to [hopefully] unfold, we headed up to Venice Beach, more commonly known as Muscle Beach, for some sightseeing/people watching.

Oohhhhh the people watching. We got more than we bargained for. We were greeted straight off with a body building competition, just in time for the senior division. 60+ year old men with spray tans and velvet man-kinis? My life is complete.

As if anything could beat that, we ventured on and enjoyed some creepy quality street performers, rollerbladers on the boardwalk, the most intense game of handball ever to exist, and accidentally walked through the middle of a pick up basketball game.  I made an attempt at conquering my “swimmy-bitey-things-in-non-pool-water” fear (documented in La Propuesta HERE), which failed pretty miserably.

All of the excitement at Venice Beach did succeed at distracting me from the lack of control over the impending Surprise Of The Millennium, for which I am grateful.  (Aneurisms at the beach are probably not cool)

Once we finally made it back to the car (I am too cheap to pay for parking, so we walked like 1.5 miles each way) ((I counted it as my workout for the day)) my excitement+nerves=word vomit, and I spilled the beans about my Surprise Of The Millennium :

We drive in a frenzy to west LA.  We park, see a group of cutely-dressed girls getting out of their car, and practically race the two blocks to the studio (in heels, mind you).  MT kept saying she’d be damned if they get in and we don’t.

There was a long line of people already at the doors, and I cursed myself for thinking camping out ovenight would be overkill.  MT won’t shut up about how much it would suck if we don’t get in, and I’m metnally calculating the bartering value of my on-hand posessions to keep that from happening.  I marched up to a clipboard-toting man and sweetly (but firmly) told him we were here for the Chelsea Lately taping.  He gave us a quick look, took my name, and had security escort us off the premises.

Kidding.

He asked us to have a seat in the shaded area on the side of the building, and that he’d be over shortly to talk to us.  We joined the group of 15 or so other people, and sat dejectedly in silence for a few moments.  Obviously we were too late.  I slumped my shoulders and told MT I was sorry the Surprise Of The Millennium turned out to be a bust.

Being the social butterfly she is, and not a pouty pessimist like her elder sister, MT got to talking to the girls next to us.  One of them came to a taping the week before, and was sent over to shady loserville that time too.  ‘Tough luck,’ I thought, while making a mental note to look for cute riding boots like she was wearing.  And the long gold charm necklace her friend had on.  And the supercute sundress the girl on my otherside had on.  ‘Well, we ARE in LA, of course they’re all stylish and pretty…’

“They put the cute girls over here to fill the front rows before they fill the rest of the audience with all the people in line over there”

I took my chin out of my hand and looked at Cute Riding Boots Girl as if she’d just said Michael Jackson resurrected from the grave and would be putting on a concert that night at the Staples Center.

me : “Shut up.”

CRBG : “yeah, I was here Wednesday”

MT’s jaw dropped.

me : “SHUT. UP.”

MT is kind of bouncing up and down with a really creepy/excited look on her face, slapping her thighs.

CRBG : “… yeah.”

Commence squeeling, giggling, and hugging.  People were staring.  I didn’t care.  MT surely didn’t care, and was now crying a little.  The Surprise Of The Millennium was a back on.

We sat front and center, and were so close to Chelsea during her opening monologue I could see the shoe blisters on her feet.  We laughed, we clapped, we laughed some more.  We tried to laugh and clap louder than the people next to us, because obviously if Chelsea noticed us we’d become best friends, would drink Belvedere in her office after the show, and I’d get to borrow those awesome gold sandals that were giving her said blisters.

That all didn’t happen, but The Surprise Of The Millennium was officially deemed a success when we got to shake Chuy’s chubby little hand after the show.

(Taken of paused tv with camera phone – forgive the poor quality, it’s the only proof we have!)

So, I am still the Best Sister Ever.  And since I’ve set the bar so sky-high the first time out, I’m frantically searching for bigger and better extravaganzas for MT’s next visit.  So if anybody has a hook up for gameday access to the Dodger’s lockerroom, an invite to the Playboy mansion, or a private helicopter please let me know.

More sisterly tales to come, including some wild animals, losing our yoga virginities, and my giant social FAIL at Huntington Beach.  Stay tuned!

Hollywood’s My Middle Name,

Sarah Soon-To-Be