I just read an article that stated the number one country to live in is Norway. It went on to detail all the ways Norway is superior to other locales, including such things as the economy, the beautiful scenery and the chance to use the word “fjord” on a daily basis. One thing the article neglected to share, however, is that the temperature never really gets above buck naked cold and that there isn’t an HEB grocery store to be found in the entire country.
Speaking of HEB (how’s that for a transitional statement?) I spent most of the morning at HEB loading up on all the necessary provisions which lean heavily these days towards a host of over-the-counter pharmaceutical products for our assorted bouts of acid reflux, muscle aches and allergy issues. I also needed to get the ingredients to make P a birthday cake because today is his 39th birthday and there is no way I can let that kind of event go by without chocolate cake.
(I’m trying a new chocolate cake recipe and have every intention of documenting the process in photographic form. So if it turns out halfway decent or perhaps even magically delicious, I’ll post the recipe here tomorrow.)
The biggest issue I have with P and his birthday is it’s impossible to find a gift he’ll actually use and there are only so many times you can give your husband an envelope full of cash without it becoming overly sentimental and romantic.
One Christmas I actually surprised him with a lower something or other for some sort of gun, but I only knew to do that because I called his best friend and asked him for help. He told me about the lower whatever thing and the whole thing ended up with me driving an hour to the middle of nowhere and then an additional forty-five minutes past that until I ended up in some man’s basement looking at weapons. I’ve never been more certain that I’d just wandered into a set of circumstances that would eventually be turned into an episode of Law and Order (ripped from the headlines!).
So now I just stick to the Gap and their lovely assortment of plaid shirts because, really, what do you get the man who already owns a pair of these bad boys? There’s nowhere to go but down.
P asked me to clarify that these boots are not intended to be any sort of fashion statement (I know we were all worried), but merely serve as a practical measure to prevent him from incurring a rattlesnake bite. Although let’s not pretend for a second that if he were a single man the ladies wouldn’t be lined up for miles once they noticed that embossed leather snake profile.
Happy Birthday, P. I love you and your snake boots. I love the way you love our family. I love that you are never afraid to say exactly what you think. I love that every year you vow that you’re not going to be as nice as you were the year before and then end up buying new work boots and assorted fajita dinners for your employees, also known as the sons you never had or wanted to have. I love that you leave your empty Zyrtec D wrappers on the kitchen countertop next to half the paper towel that you want to save for later.
Actually, that last part isn’t true.
But the rest is.
I’ll love you ’til all the fjords in Norway run dry.