Saturday brought sunshine and higher temperatures than we’ve seen in months, so I didn’t wear a coat.
(Remind me in the future that while 44 degrees may be warm relative to 7 degrees, it is not actually WARM.)
It’s not like I was going FAR. I walked the 500 feet or so from my apartment to the leasing office. Inside, I ran into one of the leasing agents and told him I needed to collect a package.
He looked through the boxes on the shelves. “It’s for you, Princess!” he said.
Hmm. That’s weird.
But maybe he’s the type of guy who calls people “honey” and “guy” and “princess” instead of bothering to remember their names.
Possibly he was flirting?
Or maybe he was commenting on my ensemble of pink shirt and Ugg boots. I mean, that’s pretty much as princessy as one can get without wearing a ball gown and a tiara, right?
So I pretended that it was totally normal for a random dude to call me Princess. And I clapped my hands and bounced up and down on my toes and said, “Yay! I bet it’s a birthday present!”
Yes. I clapped my hands and bounced.
Like I was 16. And accustomed to being addressed as “Princess.” And, you know, princessy.
The guy gave me a strange look. A look as though to say, “Why is this nearly-30-year-old woman bouncing and clapping in my office?”
But what he said was, “I don’t normally go around calling people ‘Princess.’ That’s what the address says.”
Confused, I picked up the package.
Sure enough, it was addressed to Princess Maidenname.
It makes me smile just to think of it. My dad has a great sense of humor and a sweet heart.
I could have laughed and said something like, “Yeah, I thought you were weird for calling me ‘Princess,’ but I decided to just go with it.”
Or joked that I’d legally changed my name. Or any number of normal slash witty responses.
But instead I started babbling about how it was obviously from my dad and it was probably for my birthday and how nice was it that my dad still thought of me as his little princess even though I am almost 30?
The guy narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re a real Daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”
And then proceeded to tell me that turning 30 is no big deal. It’s only once you turn 31 that the universe implodes.
Was I glad to get out of there?
Yes. Yes, I was.
Fortunately, I rarely venture outside the confines of my castle apartment. So it is unlikely that I’ll run into the leasing agent again for a while.
DOUBLE fortunately, the contents of the package more than made up for my idiocy. See for yourself:
And, just in case you thought otherwise, my father doesn’t normally go around calling me “Princess.” Well, not often.
He’d addressed the package to me that way in reference to the wine.
Just so you know.
* * * * *
Tonight, after my husband returns from fellowship interview number two, we are going to drink The Princess Syrah.
And I am going to make Steak Diane.
Or, at least, attempt to make Steak Diane.
No, I have never made it before. Yes, I decided on a whim to try it for the first time ever on Valentine’s Day.
I will admit, I’m a little weirded out by a beef dish that’s named after a woman I don’t know. Plus, this dish requires me to set some cognac on fire.
Me. The person who has burned several things, including rice, gravy, and a paper towel that was left too close to a burner.
I am pretty sure I’m going to skip the flame throwing.
Anyway. Steak Diane.
I’ve never actually cooked steak before. I usually leave that to my husband. Aside from the fireworks, this recipe requires a) a weighted skillet, b) a meat pounder, and c) something called “glace de viande.”
Seeing as I have none of these things, things do not bode well for tonight’s dinner.
So. You will not be surprised if my next post extols the virtues of a Valentine’s Day dinner from Chipotle.
I’ve heard burritos make a fine pairing with Syrah.