Go Raibh Mile Maith Agaibh
I was in the dubious position of shopping for a gift... not just any gift, I was reminded by the little internal fact checker she'd installed, but the gift for the two cleanup crew who came in and saved our sanity. The fact checker beeped this time. It seemed to do that whenever I got something right. Or right according to its parameters.
As a test, earlier, I'd given great thought to the Boston Bruins, and what they need to do regain their place amongst the local sports teams in the spotlight... I'd started out with them not getting rid of Joe Thornton, resigning Bobby Orr and seeing if he could still play defense at all, going out and asking the Pittsburgh Penguins if they could borrow Sidney Crosby from them for a season or two... or perhaps just a couple games. No beeps, at all. I read through a collection of Rambler issues written by Samuel Johnson and pondered their greater (cranky) meaning. No beeps.
I thought about getting a mug that had a picture of a Charlie's Angels look-a-like that effectively disrobed when you poured hot liquid into it... this resulted in a mild shock. In fact, thinking back on the episode I'm getting a humming noise traveling up around the back of my skull, so I'd better forget about that for now.
I believe this thing was inserted after her birthday last year, on which she received a set of hand towels and Pottery Barn catalog. I awoke one morning to a steadier than usual headache, and a small amount of blood on my pillow. Thinking not much of it (due to the headache), I grabbed some aspirin, looked in the mirror, and was struck with the though that I should buy her a nice turtleneck jumper from the shop. While similar to a mild shock, as I don't believe a thought like this had ever occurred with such startling clarity, especially not just as I'd woken up, the effect lingered over breakfast, where, had I been more alert, I would have noticed her looking intently at me, as if to see inside my tiny little brain, and into its inner workings.
After breakfast, on the drive into work I found myself pulling into the parking garage of the Cambridgeside Galleria, shutting the door, and walking in a haze through the mall to the shop, where I picked up a turtleneck, had it gift-wrapped, paused briefly outside a few jewelry stores, headed back into the car, where I left the package while I worked. At 5 I shut down my computer terminal, waved my goodbyes to my fellow day traders, and drove back home, first picking up a bottle of champagne on the way, along with a chiller for it.
At any rate, I figured something was fishy a few days later, as the staff at the liquor store commented on me being around again, and that I always seemed to twitch when I paused in front of the beer fridge, was there anything wrong?
But now, I have to say, it's coming in handy, if only either of us knew what to get for someone for saving your sanity.
disclaimer:
This issue was written with a sleeping child velcro'd to my chest, standing at the largest flat surface in the office, in order to not disturb aforementioned baby.
So far, we are successful. Even the vicious air hockey tournament going on in the next room hasn't been enough to disturb her.
The book in serial form, The Man's Guide to Not Being Pregnant, will return next week, more likely than not.
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