Tomorrow is his birthday.
Yeah, I found something to get him. I’m not saying I hit the office supply aisle at CVS, but who can’t use a mini-stapler? I didn’t even blink at the $3.49 price tag. Plus tax, mind you.
Besides, I found the perfect funny/hip t-shirt and it actually came in his size. Ok, they were sold out. It’s the thought, right? I’m sure he’ll love the one that isn’t as nice and is a size too small. Who wouldn’t?
Hey, I never said I was good at gifts.
I’m good at birthdays.
There’s a difference.
As I type this, I’m bringing a vat of water to a boil so I can peel tomatoes for his favorite gazpacho. My schedule for the afternoon just says “make cake.” Tomorrow there will be coq au vin with plenty of bacon. I’ll get the crunchy bread at the last minute, that way it’ll be fresh.
So when I write the words “Big Pretty Bow” on an unopened shipping box with a third-choice whatever inside, that’s not completely unromantic.
It’s meta.
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