My friend Cheryl's a funny girl.

We can be sitting there at dinner, chatting away about nothing in particular, and somehow she manages to say nothing. Not nothing as in she sat there completely silent, but nothing as in nothing.

Which, by the way, is in sharp contrast to me, who must recount to her in excruciating detail the minutiae of every conversation, of every encounter with every single person I've come across that day, that week, that month, whatever.

There is nothing, not one thing, that happens in my life (real or imagined) that Cheryl is not privy to, no matter how mundane, uninteresting or bizarre. It's just the kind of friend she is.

Which is why she pisses me off so much.

Because after spending three hours debating the pros and cons of something really important --like, say, whether I should have a hidden zipper put into my new pull-on boots for easier access -- we'll gather our things to go. And as we step out the door, she'll blurt something out like: "Oh yeah ... forgot to tell you. I'm getting married." Or "Did I mention that I'm pregnant?" Not that this actually happened when she told me either of those things, but it basically did. With just about as much fanfare.

In other words, she's a freak. I've learned to live with it.

So it was her birthday the other day. Of course we were not to celebrate. Not because she didn't want to remember, but because she didn't want to cause a fuss. She didn't want to be a bother. Or have anyone put themselves out. It really is very annoying.

She agreed to dinner, though. Nothing fancy, of course, but the usual spot would be OK since they serve cake. And there's being selfless and then there's celebrating your birthday without Wacky Apple Flan, and obviously the latter would just not do.

But try as I might, I could not think of a gift for her. Necklace? Bracelet? She's got so many of them. Some neato new product from Sephora she'd never buy herself? A possibility. But then I'd have to go into Toronto and she might be a good friend, but come on ... Power drill? Pyjamas? Gift card? Flowing white robe? What?

So I asked her. I don't know why I asked her, but I did.

We do this dance ever year. Every year, she'll ask me what I want for my birthday and I'll always give the same response -- nothing. Which is stupid because I know she's going to buy me something, same way she knows I'm going to buy her something, but we always answer the same way -- nothing. I don't need anything.

This year she told me that as my gift to her, I could take pictures of her daughter.

"That's it?" I was losing patience with Mother Teresa.

"Yup. That's what I want."

"Fine then. And next year for my birthday, you can make me a project in art class with construction paper and Popsicle sticks. OK?"

Silence.

"OK, OK ... I guess I kind of need a new bag ...."

Finally. And my favourite kind of present, too -- one that allows me to shop for myself at the same time. Because that's just the kind of friend I am.

Which is what brought me to the shoe and handbag mecca of the Golden Horseshoe. A place I could before only dream of. I'd heard about it in ads and in reviews and such, but I never ... I never knew. How could I not know? Stylesense. The one in Oakville Place. Holy. Cow.

It was overwhelming at first. There were so many shoes, boots, booties ... so many booties. And I need booties. And boots. And, in my peripheral vision, I saw a wall of bags, but come on, first things first.

I did a preliminary scout. Don't get crazy. Don't get overwhelmed. Don't let that woman by the Miss Sixty boots distract you. She might not be your size. She might not be buying that particular pair.

Stay focused on the task at hand. We're looking for booties or boots, hopefully grey, possibly some funky every day mary janes. If it's meant to be, they will show themselves.

And then, there they were. Grey, distressed leather, knee length, flat to the ground, elfin pointy toes. I'd been looking for them all year. Three pair remained, one in my exact size. See what I mean? If it's meant to be ...

Eventually I found my way to the bags, but I couldn't find anything as perfect in bags as I did in my grey boots. Oh, or anything for Cheryl, either.

So I stopped into the mall and picked up something for her on the way to dinner.

snadler@thespec.com