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Our 23rd wedding anniversary was just one week away, and I could hardly wait to top the excitement of last year's romantic adventure—buying a new toilet seat.

Giddy with plans of a dreamy dinner for two at the swankiest high-rise restaurant in town, my imagination savored every heart-throbbing detail. After generously tipping the handsome valet parking attendant, Gary and I would stroll into a glass elevator for a ride to the 44th floor. There we'd be greeted by several tuxedoed men tripping over themselves to take our coats. As a string quartet played softly in the corner, we'd slip into chairs at our table overlooking the twinkling lights below.

A week before the big day, I zeroed in on the perfect table-for-two venue with a jaw-dropping view of the city. I even went online ahead of time to ogle the gold-lettered menu that appeared to be roughly the size of a room divider. Glancing at the exotic names of sizzling chops and sauces, I noticed that steak prices began at 55 dollars. And that didn't even include the fork.

Still, the restaurant boasted the best view in town, a piano player, and validated parking. Who could resist?

I had just one minor problem. When I called my view-for-two sky scraper, all dinner reservations were booked. Through the next three presidents.

Time for Plan B. If I couldn't arrange a breathtaking view, then a roaring fire would be the next best treat. I remembered a trendy new eatery that featured a spectacular fireplace, and it was located a mere 101.3 miles from our house. Fortunately for our aging minivan, I discovered they'd opened a spiffy new location only 5 miles from our home. Although the restaurant specialized in pasta instead of t-bones, I was sure it would do the trick. 

At last our big night arrived. Reaching the restaurant, we repeatedly circled the jam-packed lot, finally nabbing the last parking place. Inside was no better: We elbowed our way through the packed crowd like salmon struggling to swim upstream.

I glanced to the right and noticed a bar and lounge area with a jukebox and a variety of colorful bottles suspended in the air. To my left were rows and rows of tables in the dark. Frantically grabbing a hostess, I asked her to point out the fireplace.

"Sorry," she tossed over her shoulder. "We're the only 'Pasta Surprise' that doesn't have one. Surprise!" 

 I couldn't believe it. No view. No fire.

"We're not eating here," I yelled at my husband over the crowd.

Slowly trudging back to the car, I felt like crying. Why couldn't I ever have the magical evening I yearned for? After two decades of clogged drains and kids, kids, kids, I wanted this one thing to go my way. Was that too much to ask?

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