My True Love Gave To Me……..

The Bandit is going to kill me. And unexpectedly, it’s not the way you’ll suspect. Let me give you another little insight into my character.

I love birthdays and Christmas. I mean, I REALLY LOVE them. I endeavor to find the right presents for everyone, and I enjoy watching the recipients open them. But that is not why I love birthdays and Christmas. Not by a long shot, and if I tried to convince you otherwise, the comments section of this blog would blow up. The people that know me well would begin picketing, I’m sure. I LOVE birthdays and Christmas because I really, really, really love getting presents. Big presents. Little presents. Presents in little blue boxes with white ribbon that oh so subtly hint at Tiffany. I have been like this for all of my days, and having just recently turned 40 (gasp wheeze), I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Now here is where I tell you of one of my largest character flaws. It’s big – bigger than no will power and short temper combined. I snoop. There, I’ve said it. I am a hopeless and unrepentant snooper. And, I am deeply skilled. For as long as I can remember, I have been able to find my presents. No matter how stealthily they are hidden. It’s a gift really. If some fool is so naïve as to put a wrapped present under the tree, I will sneak out in the dark of night armed only with the light of the moon and unwrap, ogle, and rewrap said present so well it will be virtually undetectable. I have enormous talent with Scotch tape, and I wholeheartedly endorse the higher end wrapping paper as it handles the rewrapping process much better than the cheaper rolls.

I have experienced some regret, I will admit. Not because I ruined the surprise. PSHAW. No, my regret stems from the sad truth that, in my younger, novice days, I left tracks and used my little brother as the fall guy. I distinctly remember a year when I foolishly left a dining room chair in my parent’s closet. I shake my head at the stupidity and lack of attention to detail that exhibited. I conned him into saying it was him. And even worse than that, I can’t even tell you how many times I began conversations with him like this:

“If you tell me one of my presents, I’ll tell you one of yours. You go first,” I’d tell him.

The poor sap fell for this time and time again. He would tell me something and then I’d follow up with, “Well, I don’t know any of yours, but as soon as I found out, I’ll tell you.” You know I never did.

If I were a believer, I’d go to confession for that.

My Honey won’t play this game. I am both secretly awed and hate him a little bit because of it. He never brings my presents home. He immediately takes them to his warehouse and leaves them there until Christmas Eve, the bastard. I don’t have keys to the warehouse. There isn’t a window that I can shimmy through. Believe me, I’ve cased the joint.

“Tell me what you’re getting me. Just give me a hint,” I’ll cajole. “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

“I don’t know,” is the only answer he will give. He’s like a friggin Sphinx – only if he was the Sphinx he’d at least give me a riddle I could work on for a couple of days to keep me occupied. I don’t know how I’ve remained married to him for nine years – except that he’s absolutely perfect for me.

There are those of you out there that are appalled, I know. You’re thinking some malarkey about “But I enjoy the surprise.” That’s bullshit and you know it. I have possibly missed a very lucrative career as an actress, because I assure you, if you think I was surprised about a present you gave me, think again. I’ll let you people ponder that for a while.

Don’t think that I’m not grateful. I’ve already told you, I love presents, so a big and hearty THANK YOU for each and every one of them.

So why is The Bandit killing me? Because bless his four-year-old heart, the secrecy is killing him. My Honey took the kids to the mall on Monday after he picked them up from school and they bought my Christmas present. From the minute I got home from work, he’s been trying to tell me what they bought. Sassy is going to have a heart attack trying to keep him from telling me. I’ve actually resorted to covering my ears and humming to avoid it.

Last year he sidled up next to me on the couch and whispered in my ear, “I’m not supposed to tell you that we got you a bathrobe, but it’s really soft and fuzzy.” God bless him.

But the fact of the matter is, it’s just not sporting to find out from someone that’s trying to tell you. And I hate to exploit his innocence that way. I hope I’m not maturing.