A Surprise Guest
Back in the day, I had a friend named Lauren. She worked as a traveling special ed teacher, serving children at the Early Learning Center with behavior challenges. She spent a lot of time with two students in my classroom, and over time, we became a great team. We collaborated during the school day and cracked each other up during our breaks.
One afternoon, Lauren told me she was hosting a baby shower for her sister that weekend. She had a funny twist on a classic party game and asked if I’d be willing to play a part. Of course, I said yes. I never turn down a chance to cause a little chaos.
You probably know the game: The host walks around with a tray of baby-related items—diaper, pacifier, rash cream—and shows it to the guests. After a minute or so, she covers the tray and passes out paper and pens. Guests try to remember and write down as many items as possible. The person who lists the most wins a prize.
We added a surprise element.
At home, I transformed myself into what can only be described as a recently-paroled, possibly grunge-era sex worker. I ratted my hair into pigtails and sprayed them jet black. I smudged dark eyeliner around my eyes, painted my lips a bruised-looking blue-black, and buckled my dog Eli’s collar around my neck. I squeezed into a tight black tee, cutoff jean shorts, ripped nylons, and heavy black boots.
I parked in Lauren’s driveway and waited for the perfect moment. At the agreed time, I marched up the steps, rang the bell, and barged into the party like I owned the place.
The room froze.
With total confidence, I announced I was looking for Susan. “We met in rehab,” I said. “She told me I could come live with her any time I needed to—and, well, I need to.”
Lauren played along beautifully. She fumbled and told me there was no one named Susan here. I insisted I had the address right and said that I had a paper in my backpack to prove it.
Then I dropped my pack on the ottoman and began unpacking: a diaper, rash cream, pacifier, condoms, cigarettes, a random set of keys, and one single red glove.
No one said a word. Not even a gasp. Just stunned silence and wide eyes.
I stammered out awkward apologies, saying I must have gotten the wrong house—but added that the neighborhood looked exactly how Susan had described it from rehab. Slowly, I packed up the items, zipped the backpack, and hustled out the door.
I was in there for maybe 7 minutes.
Once I left, Lauren handed out paper and pens and challenged her guests to remember the baby items I had unpacked during my wild entrance. Just the baby items.
After a few minutes, she came out to the car, doubled over laughing, and invited me back in. She introduced me as her coworker and friend, and we stayed to laugh and chat with the guests.
The next day, Lauren said some of her aunts still believed I was actually that character. “How does the school district even hire someone like that?” one of them whispered.
They couldn’t believe I’d done it just for fun.
And that’s the best part about a really great surprise—it leaves people wondering what just happened, a little dazed, and laughing long after the moment ends.
Lauren and I never worked together again after that school year, but I still think about that baby shower. That day, we pulled off a surprise no one saw coming—and gave a group of ladies in sensible shoes a story they’ll probably never forget.
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