For years, I have battled my husband on the yearly Christmas gift exchange. At first, it started out great, as it does for many couples. He was an excellent gift giver when we were dating, which is fascinating, because we were in high school and college. We were young and poor, yet he showered me with thoughtful jewelry and clothes I actually liked. A turtleneck in my favorite color. A coat! (I love coats). A CHI straightener! A CHI blow dryer, because I love my straightener so much and look how well it lasted (and both still going strong).
Over the years, I told him not to get me anything, and those years I truly meant it. We got to the point where we bought the things we needed, especially me, who is constantly buying things I don’t need. I don’t really wear jewelry. We started sharing experiences like tickets to football games and saying “this is our Christmas present” and it’s all good.
But, as holiday shopping started to feel more like work, around the time we had kids and our siblings started having kids, and I literally had to start tracking things on a master spreadsheet every year and he stopped doing the wrapping, I started to get a little irritated with the arrangement.
It’s not that I need anything, it’s just that for once, I would like to be surprised. You get to a point in your life where no one literally surprises you about anything anymore. Every gift I get I either buy for myself or have sent in a detailed list to someone else. And it’s great to get exactly what I want. But sometimes...just sometimes...you miss being surprised. At least I do. Or the act of someone being thoughtful and picking out something you like without you expressly telling them, “please go get this at Nordstrom in size large, black, thanks.”
So, for a couple of years, I have asked him to get me something small.
“Let’s do stocking stuffers,” I would say. “It doesn’t have to be expensive, just something thoughtful that you would think I would like.”
So one year he got a nice curated box of mini bottles of scotch.
I got nothing.
Another year he got some nice bar soap and shaving products in a scent I thought he would like.
I got nothing.
Kristin Wiig’s Christmas morning SNL skit was on that year and I may have mentioned that I didn’t even get the fucking discount robe.
Last year, I commissioned his uncle to build him a beautiful chess table and he gave me a wonderful gift card to a spa where I had gotten a massage the year before. I was genuinely surprised.
And, shit head that I am, still have not used it to this day.
Touche’
This year we agreed on Endzone Club tickets to a Cyclone game but of course, Josh checked in with me to make sure I had no additional expectations.
“So we are good, right? We aren’t getting each other presents?” he asked.
“I did get you a stocking stuffer a while ago. I would like you to try to get me something small,” I said. I had been dropping hints for two years that I need new, updated perfume and I would be ok with him picking it out. That has yet to happen and I have given up on that. But I did think of something the other night.
After my arms were exceptionally sore from a workout, Josh was trying to give me a back massage and it was not as great as it could be with my dry winter skin. He grabbed some lotion and it was definitely better, but it gave me an idea.
“Why don’t you pick out some nice massage oil for my stocking stuffer this year?” I asked.
Josh’s mind already somewhere else. “Oh yeah…?”
“Well I mean it can be that too, but also some that smells nice. Like for actual massages. I don’t want KY slathered all over my back, but I don’t want it smell like dirty hippie either. There has to be something and I want you to find it,” I said.
Josh said he would. I came home last night and he was looking on his phone while the mac and cheese was boiling and proudly announced he was “ordering my Christmas present.”
“That’s not really how it’s supposed to work,” I said, nodding toward the kids.
“Well don’t be opening any strange packages,” Josh said.
Fair point, 95% of the boxes that came to the house were of my doing so I opened just about all of them, but I would recognize if one was not to me.
“Am I going to be able to open this present in front of the kids on Christmas morning?” I ask, anxiety creeping in.
“Hmm..should be fine…” Josh says.
The next day, I’m on a call with my boss and the doorbell rings.
Strange, I think. I’m not expecting a package today. I diligently track everything I buy and knew nothing was coming today. Also people normally don’t drop by in our neighborhood. I figured it might be one of Josh’s mystery boxes, so I disconnected with my boss and ran downstairs to open the door.
On my doorstep was what I can only describe as a WalMart wrapped phallus with a JPick sticker on it. I could see it was bright orange bottle wrapped in a WalMart plastic bag, secured with a rubber band. I picked up and read Durex and I thought, “oh my god that bastard bought me a bottle of lube.”
To be fair, it’s massage oil that can be used as lube, which is what we discussed as a possibility but it’s a little hard to not feel like a deviant holding a WalMart bottle of lube on your front door step knowing this is your Christmas present, and that some poor asshole had to deliver this to you.
Remembering this I hasten inside and put it on the island to go back to work, trying not to think about my merry bottle of Christmas spirit, trying to reconcile this gift in my head. I mean, lube is really the ultimate love gift right? It’s truly the gift of giving. It says so many things and they are all wonderful.
“I know it takes a while for you to get going, but I also know you want to go to sleep, and I also want to get this done, so we can hurry this along and both win. Here's some lube.”
“Listen, your engine doesn’t quite run the way it used to but I still love you and we are going to push through it. Hand me the lube”
“Neither one of us is really feeling sexy after this pizza roll and busch light dinner but this baby isn’t going to make itself… Lube me up.”
Josh comes home for lunch and I come downstairs as he’s finishing up his brisket. We chitchat about our wine advent calendar and dinner that night and finally I can’t take it anymore.
“Are we going to talk about what is on the kitchen island?” I ask.
Josh raises his eyebrows in question, then turns and looks to where the package is standing erect.
“What is that?” he asks.
“I think it’s my Christmas present. Don’t worry, I didn’t open it, just like you told me,” I snicker.
“Oh my god, they brought it like this?” Josh said, looking at it through the plastic. “I hope they don’t bring the other ones like this.”
“Sweet Jesus there’s more?!” I scream. “Santa is the one who is supposed to be bringing this stuff, remember? Why does it have to look like a gigantic orange penis? At least I didn’t have to look at the poor soul who had to deliver it to me.”
“They probably wanted to get the hell out of here. They didn’t want to stick around to see why someone got next day delivery on this lube,” Josh said.
And so we continue our lunch conversation around our Christmas tree and Santa cookie jar, and the jokes got more progressively low brow. And I’m reminded that my husband, and his blunders, are really the best gifts of all, and they give all year round.
