I'm in Robinson's or May Company or some damned department store, shopping for the sort of useless trinkets that pass for Mother's Day gifts after you've had kids for the better part of a decade and the intersection of Want and Afford has been pretty much exhausted. Joanne said she'd like a charm bracelet this year. Case in point.

So I'm in the jewelry department, pawing through the ironically named charm rack: tiny little cell phones and Visa cards and martini glasses and I wish to God I was kidding. But a few are nice and so I pick those up and one last one catches my eye.

It's a book, a pinky-tip-size book, with a working hinge. On the cover it says, "I love you!" and when you lever it open with a thumbnail, the inside says:

And while, sure, you could interpret that as "You're the best [hug] [kiss]", I'd much rather believe that there is a monumental, barely tapped market out there: Mongolian plainsmen, buying delicate silver charms for their favorite plow animals.

At least they're easy to shop for.