Thank you for the receipt
MY boyfriend, Roy, seemed surprised when I first asked for a receipt. I guess because in his family everyone pretends to like their Christmas gifts.
But after two years of Christmas presents, Roy was used to me not faking giftgasms. Because I believe if you fake it, then you lose the opportunity to teach your significant other what you really want.
At my house, no one pretended anything. For better or worse, my family never believed in keeping things inside. My Dad tossed a sweater at me telling me to take it back. I’d tell my parents, “Ugh, next time just give me cash.” And my brother threw lawn darts at me if I didn’t give him a “Star Wars” action figure. Receipts went into the bottom of every gift box.
I still tell my mother to never give me anything because it’s always bad. This is a woman who buys her gifts at the dollar store. Last Christmas, I got a book on writing that she found at the canned food outlet.
I guess my family’s belief is, “Why pretend to like anything? Most people will appreciate knowing what you really like.” But I guess that lesson could be better told without lawn darts.
At my house, my mother gave Roy $20 and a book penned by William Shatner that she found at the dollar store. He seemed pleased and my mother felt vindicated (but at least she took my suggestion on the cash).
But sometimes Roy seemed oblivious to the subtle. My hints for a butterfly necklace went unheeded and instead he gave me “created” sapphire earrings. You know, all the improbable color and clarity of real semi-precious stones but without any real value -- although their price is real enough. I consider them an abomination and a racket. (I dislike them almost as much as peach-scented anything.)
Roy didn’t seem bothered by my cool response.
At Roy’s mother’s house, his sisters oohed and aahed at potpourri and $10 gift certificates to Borders. Then my turn came.
I’m not technically family so I knew my gift wouldn’t be extravagant. I opened up the snowman wrapping paper with stick-on bows. I pulled out a full bathroom set with body lotion, body spray, soap and bath crystals, all -- peach-scented.
As my head spun in a peachy miasma, I realized my choices were to pretend to like it and get peach-scented towels, candles and soaps until our 50th wedding anniversary or be honest and risk offending his well-meaning family.
I looked at Roy in desperation. He stepped in and asked his sister if she would trade her plumeria-scented offering with me. Her smile dropped a little, but she did.
I felt better and my first genuine smile of the day appeared. His teenage sister seemed to like the rebellious top I bought her, his mom seemed to like the sweater and his older sister seemed to like the jewelry (always a good choice). But if they really didn’t, receipts were taped to the bottom of the box.
“Your family’s weird,” I said. “Do they always pretend they like their gifts?”
“Barbara, part of Christmas is showing appreciation. Even if it’s not what you wanted, you appreciate the thought behind it,” he intoned like an after-school special.
“Spoken like a guy who bought his girlfriend fake jewels,” I said.
I looked at the fake sapphire earrings later that night and took them out of their box. The cartoonish-colored jewels weren’t so bad. But I breathed easier when my fingers felt the receipt taped to the bottom.