I FORGOT to get my wife a gift for Mother’s Day. We, who about to die, salute you. The kids drew sweet portraits for her and made cards in school that were achingly cute; her sister sent her something nice; my sister sent her something nice. We went to the local International House Of Carbs for breakfast, and even they gave a rose to every mother who walked in. And each time one of these gifts was placed in her hands, she slowly turned her head and looked at me with ice-blue eyes that vibrated with a psychopathic hate. (Did you ever see Peter O’Toole in a movie called “The Night Of The Generals”? Those eyes.)
The thing is, I’m usually very steady on the major gift-giving holidays. (By the way, nevermind the U.S., the U.N., the E.U., and Russia. The really important “quartet” is Valentine’s Day, your anniversary, her birthday, and Mother’s Day. You think Hamas is tough? Try skipping two of those in a row.)
