halt die ohren steiff

DAY 2 (part 1)

"Keep your ears stiff," my Euro pen pal advises, which is an old German saying sort of like 'Keep your chin up.' I am shaking my head at the ear stiff thing, still trying to fathom what that means.

His mother's private driver has been fired or retired, I can't remember which, and in this business and at her age, vetting is a difficult venture. Hence our shopping trip. She is now on the phone with her nephew, someone my love has referenced many times over.

"He is downstairs working on the car, unpacking the car and buying ice for their big trip tomorrow, and she's sitting here playing on the computer."

I laugh and furl my brow and interrupt her,"I'm not playing, I working!" shaking my head and laugh some more. ("Did you really say that to my mother?!" he says when I tell him later.)

"Now there are corduroy jackets on sale at Stein Mart, and that is where we are going first. I have decided that all of the men are getting one from me for Christmas."

"Do you really want a cordoroy jacket?" I ask softly at some point when she is meandering.

"Actually, I really like the khaki jacket," he whispers back.

"Can't you just ask her to get the one you like?"

He ended up getting both, because she insisted everyone was going to get a cordoroy jacket for Christmas.

"I got two because she likes me best," he says and winks on the way out.

Next stop was the book store, which was a big bust for me. "My Story, My Song," by Robyn Roberts was highlighted on a segment of THE VIEW, with both mother and daughter in an incredibly beautiful and inspirational interview and a testament to family bonds. Her mother died shortly thereafter.

And the other book? Recommended at a party when drinking liquor. Well the title has one word, and it's about a woman who travels out west. Note to self: even if it is only one word, and you are at a party drinking liquor (whereas I am cheap beer girl myself), you probably won't remember it, so write it down. And I didn't.

Next stop was World Market.

"We can walk there," my sportie boy says.

"How far is it?" she keeps asking. And the joke is, I am thinking the same thing. Not really sure how much I wanna walk with the torn tendon, but hell's bells: if she can do it at 90 years old, so can I. Needless to say, it was much farther, and both of us were pissed by the time we arrived.

"I think your coach sportie son fooled both of us so we would walk a little longer. But I love this place!" (I try to move the mood in another direction). "If I can get out of here without buying anything, you owe me a dollar," I challenge Him, "because this is one of my fave stores ever." And we all concurred.

"Yep. I'll take you up on that bet," she says. We are both wobbling at this point, but we have arrived.

"And you will be fetching the car for both of us after this venture," I shoot a glance to Lovey.

This is where the fun begins, when we point out all of the cool items throughout the store, who we would we buy theses presents for, and where we would put them. It was unbridled great fun, wherein she was able to stuff many of her stockings for Christmas and I was there to help her. She won that bet with the three pop-up birthday cards and the elephant journal I bought.

I can only wonder why she has asked no personal questions other than why I don't eat more.

"How much soap did you put in? There aren't any bubbles~" She doesn't think there is enough detergent in the washing machine.