A Sign From the Universe

I mentioned last week, that we have a friend that graduated from a fancy school.  With her MBA.

I'm going to paint a picture.  Mrs. Friday Friend is a fancy lady.  She's a business lady.  Her color is black and sometimes a touch of navy blue.  Picture this.  Who sometimes does this.  But with her knees together.  Doesn't look like this.  And DEFINITELY wouldn't be caught wearing this.

And now that I've painted you all a visual of Mrs. Friday Friend, I'll move on with the story.

Mrs. Friday Friend LOVES Banana Republic.  Loves it.  And wears it well.  Every time we see her (*ahem* every Friday) she showcases a new purchase.  Bracelet. Shoes. Fancy coat.

You see, she's been building up her new work wardrobe.  And you would have to be Bart and dumber than a turtle crossing the road to not pick up on the fact that Banana Republic is a part of Mrs. Friday Friend's life.

And so for her graduation gift I thought it would be fun and nontraditional to grab a BR gift card.  If I graduated I would LOVE a clothing gift card.  Yes I would.

So, on graduation day we went to our local grocer (do you like how I call it a grocer?  It makes me feel fancier.) to purchase the gift card that most certainly would be on that HUGE gift card tower.  Except it wasn't.  And I yelled "curses".  Cause it's funny to yell that.

And we went to graduation and the party hoping that nobody would notice . . . our terribleness.  But we weren't too ashamed because I was headed to the mall on Tuesday for smiles for miles, day.
I would just pick up her gift then and hand her the card in person.  Or maybe, mail it.  It always feels really special to get a nugget in the mail.  (the word "nugget" always reminds me of the word booger or turd)

Well, I got home before I remembered about the BR card.  Neat.  But still not too worried, because the next night Big D had a meeting next to the mall and he offered to go pick up the dang gift card.  But I told him no.  1)  I had returns to make at the mall and I would just pick it up, try two 2) the more errands he had, the longer before I would see him that evening.

So, Thursday came along.  I made returns and put a mental block on the card.  And came home and smiled.  And then I kicked myself in the shins.

I ate some humble pie and sent Mrs. Friday Friend a text that went like this:  we still have your card at the house and maybe by November we'll remember to give it to you.

Fast forward to last night.  Big D had another meeting next to the mall.  And THIS time I told him to march his turtle shell over there and grab the ding dang card.

So Big D got home and I said, "did you get the goods?"  And he replied, "yes, but I think I got the wrong thing".  *AHEM*  how do you get the wrong thing?  It's a gift card.  Not difficult.  You CANNOT screw up a gift card.  Unless you're Big D.

Some how he got a tad distracted.  I'm not sure if it was the music.  Or the dark entrance that whispers of horny pubescent teens making out in the corner.  Maybe it was the giant, wall-to-wall photograph of pube hair.  And I will even give him the benefit of the doubt, it very well may have been, the child like manikins wearing thongs and belly button shirts.

I'm not sure what happened that night.  But Big D came home with this.

Take Aways
1)  Have normal ideas for gifts - like fancy pens and bottles of wine.
2)  Spank your husband after he takes off his turtle shell.
3)  Remind Mrs. Friday Friend that November is far away, so don't get too anxious.
4)  Or tell Mrs. Friday Friend that she needs to loosen up a bit and try to be a hip (aka hussy) mom
5)  Also remind her that Mr. Friday Friend wouldn't mind a bit.
6)  Can you return gift cards?

Fun Fact
I'm going to pee my pants.  And then make boxed mac and cheese.  Because I want to.  Also, the neighbors have a cement truck in their driveway which reminds me of the time my mother drove our 9 passenger blue station wagon into a vat of concrete and then got stuck.  And she was barefoot.  And a very nice, very ugly (that's how the story was told) man helped her get the car out. (After she herself had climbed out of the vat and then ran around to get some help because it was lunch time and everybody was hiding in corners eating their lunch) And then she came screeching down our road, rip-roaring up our driveway screaming for the hose.  Because she had to clean off the entire undersides of the car.  That car never rusted through.  The end.