Baseball Boy had a birthday last week.
For a myriad of reasons, including preparation for the Bigfoot Morel Challenge (soon to be covered on IF) and the fact that my parents just moved to a town whose name I cannot pronounce or spell, I “cheated” on Baseball Boy’s birthday, and purchased dinner from the store’s prepared food case. I am paid, of course, to sing the store’s praises, but it makes my job easy when I actually believe the food and services are tremendous. (As opposed to my days in a Chicago Advertising Agency when I was obligated to advertise brands such as Subway, Whirlpool and Charbroil. While the former was okay, I’d never owned the latter two; I felt like a complete fraud.)
We celebrated with a chicken concoction, an Italian vegetable medley and a twice-baked potato. And pie. The best part of the dinner? The table.
The company wasn’t that bad, either.
(Let it be known that through the generosity of people – other than my parents – moving, there is now a table in Baseball Boy’s apartment. Chairs, too.)