You go on a spy mish! As I yelled at Hairy in the car, “I’m not an asset! I’m OPERATIONAL!” (And then a discussion about whether those are mutually exclusive.)
We have a history of joking about and even executing silly missions. One day, I will tell the tale of how 10 of us kidnapped a friend, stuffed him in a limo blindfolded, and took him to Vegas about ten years ago, with lots of planning and meetings and spy suits and reconnaissance and dossiers and fake moustaches and underwear-stealing.
But on Sunday, my mish was pretty simple: spy on Manda and her coffee date. We had joked about it the night before, and Manda said that I would have to wear a wig to hide my pink hair. I have a few dark wigs from when I had to cover my hair for a very important family event in a foreign country, so I went with the one that looked the least beat up and gross, yet, still gross in its own wonderful way. I felt really self-conscious because I knew I looked like a crazy lunatic in a wig, pretending to be a normal person, but Hairy said that I looked no less crazy than a person with pink hair…..
As you can tell from all the annoying texts I sent Manda while drinking an Arnold Palmer and eating the brie plate, she and her date had canceled their plans. I first sent a text an hour before their alleged meet-up, but SHE WAS ASLEEEEEEEEEEEP/NAPPPING.
At least there was cheese.