A tee- shirt would have been nice. Really.
The disclaimer: He’s an incredibly generous human being; he mentors, he gives to charity, he works for the greater good. And he works really really hard. He provides for us well and then goes on to provide and care for others.
The disclaimer: I’m sort of particular, I’m not the least bit interested in jewelry, and we don’t need anymore stuff in our lives now that we have recently gotten rid of all our clutter.
What the heck? Two years ago for Christmas (when I still had some money and a Wit’s End of my own) I gave him something really cool that he very much wanted: a Honda Shadow. And because I had a few doubts, I threw in the world’s most expensive helmet: he could bounce on his head from thirty stories up and the gray matter would remain intact. AND he has really great golf clubs. Last year, while I said goodbye to my own independent separate money AND to Wit’s End, he got a new fancy job that came with a state of the art laptop and camera and Blackberry AND a whole new wardrobe of fine business suits. I no longer need work clothes and I already had all the flannel clothing any person could want so I’m maintaining the status quo in the wardrobe department.
So. Things are already lopsided around here. I have about two small things in my personal stuff column for this year and he’s onto his 3rd or 4th page of stuff. Plus, I stayed home and worked on the taxes while HE WENT TO PARIS.
I am trying to take the less is more position on this. I am trying not to be petty here. Really. I’m trying. I mean, I would have settled for duty. Duty is not squat and it can be perfectly nice and I’m quite certain the Charles De Gaulle airport has more than it’s fair share of good duty. So, even if he was busy working every single second- well, there was duty.
Did he bring me a Cedric Brochier scarf? No. Did he bring me a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower in it? No. How about a nice linen dish towel with a delicate Fleur de Lis pattern? Ah, no. A runny round of Camembert? There’s no eau de fromage around this house.
This is what he brought me from Paris. He scrounged around in his suitcase, stood up and said, "Here. I brought you this." It’s true. He brought me four Q-tips. Count ’em. Four. When I looked blank and speechless, he said, "But the box is nice, yes?"
We looked at each other across the vast expanse of bed, silently, for a couple of very long minutes. And then he asked, with the vaguest hint of remorse, "This is going to end up on the blog, isn’t it?"
So, Bernadette. Tell me. How many molasses cookies does someone get when they bring home four Q-tips from Paris?