From the time we started dating Cory told me his plans of owning a Corvette by the time he turned 40. I was 22. I just smiled and nodded and thought, "Oh how cute. He has goals." I'm pretty sure that nowhere in his plan did it have a clause stating what to do if pragmatism got in the way of said Corvette, so let's just make one right now and let's call it...the "minivan clause". This clause states that in the event of needing a new vehicle to accommodate your family you might have to forego your man car even though your crucial timeline of a birthday is a mere few weeks away.
So, no. Cory's not getting a Corvette to celebrate his four decades of life. Recognizing his need for a plan B, he stated to me a couple of weeks ago that all he wanted now for his birthday was for the Rockies to win the World Series and could I please write Todd Helton a letter stating his wishes. I don't need to elaborate on how THAT turned out.
Scrambling for a plan C he mentioned to me the other day, "Maybe you could send me to baseball fantasy camp?" Little did he know, I already had a plan C. It started over a year ago when I told the banker across the desk that she had to promise me there would be "no paper trail, no statements sent to my home, no ordered checks, no evidence whatsoever that I had opened this account." I'm sure she thought I was a battered wife saving for an escape, but quite the contrary. I was a grateful wife trying to surprise my husband but needed a way to stockpile money and withdraw it without my accountant of a spouse knowing about it. It worked, and I've been stashing all of my side money from photography jobs into this account, just so I could do what I did on Saturday night.
I chose a new Hawaiian restaurant near our home to break the news. Near the end of the meal I lied about needing a bathroom break and ran to the car to retrieve the box of goods I had prepared earlier. I slipped it next to me and a few moments later asked if anyone was ready for dessert, at which point I revealed the box and handed it to Cory. Inside was a Hawaiian t-shirt, some coconut lime lotion, some macadamia nuts, an Almond Joy, and a lei, and taped to the top of the lid was our itinerary for a 7-day Hawaiian Vacation.
Twenty-four hours later he is just beginning to digest the reality of leaving the Rocky Mountains for sunny beaches very soon, but I think he likes the idea. I couldn't help but ask, "So, are you disappointed that it's not fantasy camp?" to which he replied, "Oh, it's fantasy camp!"
So if you happen to notice a future lull in posting, I have one word for you: "Aloha!"