A couple of weeks ago was my mother’s birthday. I know this because my eldest called me in DC and was all, “OMG MOM, IT’S GRANDMA’S BIRTHDAY,” to which I replied inelegantly, “oh FUCK.” I’ll blame the migraine and not my inability to keep track of dates.

Luckily, Daver ran point, got my mom a cake and sang Happy Motherfucking Birthday to her while I lounged about in my hotel room, ordering room service, bitching about the 26% surcharge.

Yesterday, we made my mom take us out for tapas to celebrate her date of birth. Also: the Daver’s.

It dawned on me while I was getting ready that morning that I had not thought to buy her anything. Like I said, I’m not particularly smart OR thoughtful, so you know.

On the way there, stunningly late (I abhor lateness, which should go against everything you’ve ever thought about me), I realized that there was only one cure for this horrifying oversight: AN AWESOME GIFT.

My mother, not being particularly sentimental, was going to love it, I knew. I just knew I was going to make up for YEARS of crappy gift certificates from places she’d never visited. All of those crappy shirts that said, “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH,” I’d given her would be erased with one. simple. gift.

I was stoked. I was relieved. I was thrilled. I was hungry.

What? We were going out to BRUNCH, not CHURCH.

So I waited, stuffing my face with bacon-wrapped dates until the moment was perfect.

And? It was:

I gave her the Bacon/Encased Meats Monster.

She seemed less thrilled than I thought, but I bet she’s simply containing her glee. Because, um, obviously.



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