It is entirely typical of my life that I spent a good chunk of the morning scouring the house looking for a rogue rubber chicken, while James questioned whether the rubber chicken had ever existed anywhere but in my fevered imagination.
“I know it exists!” I said indignantly. “I had it when I was out having coffee with Kathy, and she told me some tale of family tragedy, and I made the chicken look sad! You don’t forget a thing like that!”*
The errant chicken at last located, the last-minute print orders mailed, the last gifts sent out, I hereby declare myself On Holiday, and if anybody wants anything, it can wait until I get back.
Okay, except I have to get something for James, because in direct violation of the “No gifts for each other because we bought a tablet PC” directive, he got me something. AND WRAPPED IT. That bastard. He’s getting the best damn socks ever. (He loves socks. Minnesotans rapidly learn the lasting value of a good wool sock.)
*She thought it was funny, might I add. I’m not, y’know, a cruel person. Much.
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