Just What I've Always Wanted

Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas? Yeah, me neither.

 I hate to sound ungrateful, but after a few trips around the sun, I have a pretty good sense of what I like, what I need, what I use, and what I appreciate. I do enjoy a surprise now and again, but at the same token, I am pretty expressive and have an inability to hide my feelings. My polite thank you is usually cancelled out by my face.

I come from a family of list-makers, and as such, we tend to make wish lists for birthday and holiday gifts. It makes life easier for everyone. You know if you get me something from the list, I will be happy, and you also know that you have not wasted your time and effort on something that may be returned or hidden somewhere until the appropriate amount of time passes before I can donate it to charity or regift it.

I realize the same handling applies to the gifts I give other people. I make a solid effort to think about what someone would like or use before I buy it because I want the recipient to be happy. I don’t give gifts out of obligation; I give them out of affection.

I’m really pretty easy to please because I like to be remembered. I also have a different set of expectations from close family members than for friends. And when it comes to my husband, well, I kind of wish he would just stick to the list.

This year, like most years, I wrote out my Christmas gift wish list. I didn’t have a ton of things I really wanted, which is great, because my husband and I decided not to buy each other presents. For the past few years, we have used Christmas as the occasion to take care of major things around the house. One year, it was a new light fixture for the foyer. Another, we redid most of the kitchen. Last year, we celebrated the birth of your savior with new garage doors.

For Christmas this year, we opted to replace our sectional sofa, but with the annual holiday break at the factory, we knew our gift would not be ready on time. We decided to get a few things to open to make the day feel special and set a budget limit that we both promptly ignored. I asked for a gift certificate for a massage, a better waffle iron that you flip and flip back like the ones in the 3-star hotel lobby breakfast bars, and Botox for my crow’s feet.

My husband asked for what he always asks for,nothing. I got him a cotton throw to match the new couch, a copy of his favorite holiday movie, and a new pair of ridiculously expensive sneakers to replace his worn-out ones that he still slaps around in after almost half a decade.

Cut to Christmas morning. The girls opened their gifts and enjoyed just about everything. My husband loved his blanket, was less than thrilled with the sneakers, and puzzled by the movie because he thought he already had it, which he did not, for the record. I loved my massage gift certificate. And then he had me open a huge wrapped box that sat lonely under the tree.

When I looked inside the shipping box, I had no idea what it was. I saw a manual with Japanese characters on it, and lots of packing material. There was also a large, round thing that looked pretty high tech.

“Do you know what it is?” he asked me.

“A Roomba?” I asked. I was really confused because I did not ask for a Roomba. I am not a stickler for a well-vacuumed house, and I doubted my ability to train my cat to ride it.
“Guess again!” He was so excited.
I looked a little closer and realized it had an almost oval shape, and a lid. “Is it a toilet seat?”
“Not just any toilet seat!” He could not contain himself.
“Is this one of those fancy Japanese toilet seats?” I asked.
“It’s a bidet! Remember when you said you wanted a bidet?”

Truth be told, I didn’t remember saying that, but clearly he did. He remembered it so well that it stuck in his mind for months until it was time to buy me something really special.

“Are you surprised? “He asked me.

“Incredibly,” I replied.

We finished opening all the gifts and went on to enjoy Christmas music and some fabulous cinnamon rolls. The toilet seat sat in its box, forgotten for the time being.

In the afternoon, I talked with my friend, MJS. We had that whole “what did you get” conversation. She told me about her haul, and then I told her about my toilet seat. MJS works with an assisted living community. She knew all about my toilet seat.

“We have lots of residents who have those installed before they move in,” she told me. “It’s great! All the residents should have them. When you get old, your accuracy starts to wane.”
“They miss the bowl?” I asked.
“Let me put it like this: it beats shit under your fingernails,” she replied.

A few days later, my husband offered to install it for me. “If you really like it, I can have an electrician come to the house to put a new outlet near the toilet.”

“This thing has to be plugged in?” I said.
“Well, it can’t very well run on batteries,” he said.

I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me it was electric. Perhaps it was because I didn’t know all that much about it.

“What does it do, anyway?” I asked. It was easier to have him tell me than to make the effort to read the manual myself.

“It does everything! It can heat up.”
“I don’t like a hot toilet seat. It disturbs me to know someone else sat there before me.”
“Well, it does other things too. It has a remote control and dual cleansing nozzles, for the front and the back.”
“At the same time? Dual action?”
“No, of course not. It also has a feminine hygiene setting.”
“I am supposed to douche with my toilet seat? Hand me that manual,” I said. “What is this? Pulsating action? Am I supposed to go the bathroom or get off on it?”
He grabbed the manual back. “It has a setting for kids too.”
“In case they have not yet been sexually abused by the toilet seat? To kind of loosen them up, break them in?”
He ignored that last comment. “It’s not a toilet seat. It’s a bidet. It can also air dry your holes.”
“Great. I always wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass. I guess this is the next best thing.”
“See? I told you you wanted one,” my husband said.

For now, the toilet seat is still in the box. My cats take turns sitting on and in the box every day. One of these days, we will get around to installing it and taking it for a test drive. I haven’t pushed the issue because it’s too damn complicated and also, to be honest, I am a little bit scared of it.

For Me? You Shouldn't Have

I received the oddest Christmas present today from my mother. Never mind that Christmas was two weeks ago, and it just arrived today, and given that it came with its own little bag of dry ice, it was, no doubt, ordered within the past couple of days. I suppose it is the thought that counts, and I should be thankful she sent me anything. Except what I am counting is the lack of thought, or maybe just the afterthought.

This is the card I would like to send:

Only it would be lost on her.

My mother sent me a box of meat. Omaha steaks, to be exact. The gift included, in addition to some fabulous dry ice that my husband no doubt will play with after dinner, four (4) steaks, four (4) chicken breasts, four (4) burgers, eight (8) hot dogs, and four (4) stuffed baked potatoes. It’s a generous gift, I suppose. I spent a good twenty minutes researching their website to find the value of the meaty gift assortment, and I couldn’t find this particular grouping, which makes me think she selected the items individually to make her own package. Or perhaps there was a coupon in the Sunday paper that isn’t reflected on the website. Maybe Costco had a special. Regardless, I got a box of meat, mostly red, to enjoy with my family.

This would be a good time to tell you that I don’t eat red meat.

I shouldn’t have to tell my mother I don’t eat red meat, because she knows. Or she used to know. Most likely she forgot, and in her defense, she does have some pretty significant memory problems.  Really, though, that doesn’t matter so much as the part where she decided that was the gift she wanted to give me, her daughter. I am not a big meat eater, nor have I ever been. I am also not hungry, like millions of Americans who do not have enough to eat and would be thrilled to receive a box of meat. I can afford to buy food for myself and my family, food that we actually want to eat.

But seriously, who gives their daughter the gift of meat? If you don’t know what to get someone, or you don’t want to put a lot of time and energy into gift giving, do you consider meat your default? What are you, a butcher?

When I was a pre-teen, which is what kids were called before they came up with tween, my mother also did not eat red meat. She gave up her extra rare London broil about the same time she gave up cigarettes, two healthy habits that lasted until about three or four years ago, which means for a good thirty years. I remember one time after my mom stopped eating red meat, my grandmother invited us over for dinner. She had made a big pot of meaty chili, and my mother had a conniption fit. How dare her own mother forget she no longer ate beef?  If memory serves me correctly, she screamed and stomped around like a two year old. What was she supposed to eat? Didn’t my grandmother think of anyone but herself? Couldn’t she for once support my mother in anything she tried to do? I wish my grandmother had told her to just eat the beans out of the chili. That would have been funny. Instead, my grandmother didn't have us over to dinner for a long time, because who needs that kind of abuse?

Blogging about my mother giving me a box of red meat isn’t the equivalent of having a temper tantrum. I can use the chicken. I can feed the rest to my husband or some friends or a pack of wild dogs. It will not go to waste.

Honestly, when my children received checks in the mail last Friday, and still over a week after Christmas, I was taken aback. Where was my check? My mother didn’t send anything to me? Did she forget about me, or was that a subtle fuck you?  

I didn't forget about her. In fact, I sent her gift early, so there was no doubt I planned on getting her a present. Hell, I even sent her something I knew she would like, because I thought about her, and thinking about my mother isn’t something I enjoy doing.

It feels good to know she didn’t forget about me. My sisters still haven’t received anything, although I am sure their steaks will be there tomorrow. One of my sisters also doesn’t eat red meat, so I know she is looking forward to her gift. And my other sister doesn’t want to eat meat of unknown and dubious origin or quality. Just because it came in the mail doesn’t make it safe or healthy or ethical.

Whatever. At least it wasn’t another box of flowers that I have to arrange myself. Besides, that’s my birthday present.

I am not really upset, more just amused. I gave birth to you. Now we don’t talk much.  Here’s some meat. I wonder what she gives to people she likes. I also wonder if there are any such people.

I love my daughters, and I am pretty sure they love me too. I have promised them no matter what happens in life, no matter if we get along or don’t, I will never send them mail order meat for Christmas.