Most folks know someone who single-handedly makes them dread the annual gift exchange. Maybe it’s a grandmother who still gives those full-skirted dolls that cover spare rolls of toilet paper, or the crazy aunt who gives you a large bottle of Jean Nate eau de toilet every year. Perhaps it’s a co-worker, a neighbor, or even a spouse.

For every one of us who loves a good gift, there’s someone out there who doesn’t know how to give one… but whose gesture must nevertheless be reciprocated. The problem is that this is the season of hope, and all too often we go hoping that horrible gift-giver will finally get it right this year. So we shop and we spend and we wrap and we reciprocate… only to find ourselves opening up yet another crappy present over which we must still say “Oooh” and “Ahhh.” Oh, and “thanks!”

My worst gift? It came last year from a friend who presented me with a very large, very nicely wrapped box festooned with a bright red bow. It was curiously light, and I could hardly wait to open it, but when I did it required one of the very best acting jobs of my life.

It was a box full of “Always Save” matchbooks — the generic black-on-yellow ones. Two hundred of them. Two days after I’d announced I was trying to quit smoking again.

Friday, December 8th, 2006, 5:22 pm   |   My Venomous Life  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.