What I consider an appropriate gift vastly differs from what Joe considers appropriate. After the jellybean pooping wind-up chicken, I "help" Joe when it comes to gift giving holidays.
Two Sundays ago, I found book of cross stitch fonts that I was coveting on a website, filled out all the necessary information including billing and shipping info and stopped just short of clicking the "pay here" button. I woke up my extraordinarily patient spouse and informed him that I found what I wanted for Mother's day and he should get out of bed to click the pay button. Suddenly, I realize that he puts up with a lot of crap from me.
It isn't really a present if I bought it myself, right?
The past two years he and Boybat have gone camping with his family during Mother's Day weekend, leaving me at home. For which I am eternally grateful. I hate camping. Tents are like stay fresh bags for bears. Ursine ziplocks. When I leave my house for an extended period of time, there had better be outlets, hot water, and cable involved.
This left me with an entire weekend with only one chore, paint the front door, which took all of two hours–only because I had to let the paint dry between coats. The rest of the weekend I spent watching BBC America (Supernatural Saturday, Yipee!), and stitching.
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I'm fickle, it'll be someone else next week.
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