Getting My Presents Wrapped Up

Every year, the Christmas season offers me a distinct reminder of what I miss most about living at home: Having someone else purchase the gifts I plan on handing out.

The Beast has long believed that Jake and I should give each other gifts, but, in our earliest years, she was pragmatic enough to understand that if the task of picking, purchasing and personalizing this gift were left to us, it would never (ever) get done.

Thus, every year, mid-way through December, The Beast would discreetly pull us aside, one at a time, and show us the gift we would be giving.

We would have no idea where it came from, how much it cost, or if had ever been requested.

But then came the catch.

With this much of the process already completed, we, understandably, reacted poorly when asked to do the wrapping. The situation was finally resolved when we, reluctantly, agreed to apply the correct names to the “to” and “from” areas of the adhesive gift tag.

When the time came to give gifts to relatives, The Beast considered her options and decided it was much easier to simply choose and buy another gift, rather than subject herself to the sounds Jake and I would make when asked what we’d like to give to some random relative.

In our defense, our young minds were abuzz with original gift ideas, but The Beast would have none of it.

“What should we give Uncle Carl? I would ask, with all the insight a seven-year-old could muster. “How about a big pile of crap? That would suit him perfectly.”

This comment would cause Hal to burst out laughing (before a quick, cold stare from The Beast silence him), but nothing ever happened.

Jake might helpfully chime in with the belief that our least favorite cousin (if you’re reading this, you know who you are) should be given a gift certificate to a bottomless pit of snakes.

In recent years (ever since the Condom Piñata Incident, at least) the cousins on The Beast’s side of the family have been hosting an annual “Cousins Night,” which precedes the larger family gathering the next day.

It is, as you might imagine, less interesting than the glowing nuance of my words suggests.

The most nefarious part of this event, however, is that the organizers administer Secret Santa-like gift assignments several weeks beforehand. Participation, I am annually informed, is not optional.

[It’s worth noting that a handful of these cousins have long since renounced religion and America, and become devout Communists. As a result, this gift exchange is less of a Secret Santa and more of a Mysterious Marx or Surreptitious Stalin.]

Falling back on life experience, I have, in past years, bought exactly zero of the gifts I have been ordered to give.

I have revisited the familiar ritual of my youth. Although it once took place in our living room, and it now occurs over the phone, the main points and end results remain the same:

The Beast: Do you know you were assigned your cousin Kevin for Surreptitious Stalin?

Me: Yes, I heard that, but I’m not doing it this year.

TB: Yes, you are!

M: Nope.

TB: Well, I found out he wants a [inane gift], can you just go get it?

M: I refuse.

TB: Fine – if you get it, I’ll pay you back.

M: I reaffirm my refusal.

TB: OK, you little snot, I’ll buy it if you just wrap it when you get here.

M: Out of the question.

TB: Will you at least sign the gift tag?

M: Do I have to hand him the gift at the party?

TB: No.

M: Agreed. I’ll see you on the 21st.

Aside from Christmas with the proletariat on The Beat’s side, I am very excited for these upcoming holidays.

From what I hear, The Beast has already wrapped some things Jake is really going to thank me for.