The Eau de (insert here) Lady

Yeah, her.

Admittedly, I can be a little down to the wire when it comes to preparing for the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML's birthday celebration. My track record is spotty, including once when it was forgotten (not my finest hour, can I just tell you?) and twice when I tried to tell her that her gift were the houses that we had just purchased, I tried to get away with that in California and here in the 'stan because we signed on those houses in July right around her big day. Not cool, I know.

For her birthday tomorrow, I was determined to be more on top of things. To my credit, I have her birthday meal planned and I am, in theory, confident it is not going to be horrible. As for gifts, I long ago took the easy way out on that and asked for a very specific list in order to avoid disappointment on all sides. No different this year, nor was the fact that I waited until the last minute - this afternoon - to get it together, making me once again a leading candidate for #Husbandoftheyear.

As said candidate armed with my list, earlier today I ventured into a certain store whose name sounds a little lot like 'Abhora' to secure one of the items on her list. I knew exactly where I needed to go in this place as I do not make any trek here lightly as it terrifies me. Why? Look, I'm secure enough in my middle-aged dadbod masculinity to march through any store that caters to women. When you are the father of two daughters, you get comfortable with those stores or every trip to the mall is worse than your annual prostate exam. This store has the power to turn me into a quivering mass of discomfort. It's not the weird makeup lighting throughout the store. It's not the borderline toxic cloud of 300 perfumes. It's the veritable army of saleswomen clad in black and red who march through the store like overly made up stormtroopers armed with lethal makeup brushes. These women, each of whom has been pulled so tight that their legs snap open when they speak, are a force of nature. It was the same today. I knew exactly where I needed to go in the store but I was about three steps in when the fatal flaw in my plan was made bare. I had no idea where the item I needed was stocked in that section. One of the stormtroopers instantly picked up on my mistake and she swooped down on me like a pelican on chum. I told her what I needed and we made our way through the perfumed haze to it and this happened (please note that I have spelled out some of this to give you a feel for it):

PERFUME LADY: "Do you want the (suddenly she burst into a French accent) Oh Day Twah-lette or  the Oh Day Pahr-Fumeh?
ME: Brief stunned silence, as I was still trying to process the sudden appearance of the French accent..."Um, I'll take perfume, please." I instantly regretted that I did not say "Si vous plait"
PERFUME LADY: Turning her head and glaring looking over her shoulder at me, saying, "You mean you'd like the Oh Day Pahr-Fumeh?" The French accent was back.
ME: Trying to process the fact that she seemed to think we were in a parfumerie along the Champs Elysses in Paris and not an outdoor strip mall built a top an old golf course in the middle of freaking Connecticut, I said, "Yes, the par, I mean, perfume, parfume." The way I stumbled over 'perfume' was a not so subtle intonation for her not to hurt me.

After this little verbal take down, she asked me if there was anything else I needed, like a special cologne for myself. I said no, thank you, blowing the chance to toss in 'merci.' In retrospect, that was probably wise. I suspect it wouldn't have ended well. So better to continue to birthday preparations, which is precisely what I did. Because #Husbandoftheyear.