The Great Queen of Regiftable Gifts

You all know one—someone who doesn't have a clue how to buy gifts with the recipient in mind.

I've got one friend who gives things she likes, things that fit her lifestyle, her decorating style, her taste. Things she has given me in the past always ended up on eBay or in the Goodwill box. Another friend gives lovely gifts but doesn't know me at all any more. She gives gifts that suit her image of me, not who I really am today. She doesn't know who I really am today.

But the worst insult is when your own mother doesn't think about your needs or desires or tastes or lifestyle. This year's example: my birthday gift arrived in the mail yesterday. It was a small box, just the right size for a piece of jewelry. Mother knows the one piece in her jewelry box that I really, really want to possess. She told me a year ago to take it and I foolishly demurred, saying she should continue to use it while she wants. In my fantasy world, Mother sent me that pearl brooch that she knows I want.

Nah, not even close. I opened the box, remembering the Lenox collectible glass rooster and hen of two Christmases ago (sold on eBay) and the Victoriana-ornate blown glass perfume bottle set of last Christmas (sold on Craigslist). Truthfully, I was shocked she remembered it was my birthday; last year she forgot.

When I finally got the box open I found, ta da, a calypso-colored striped salt and pepper shaker set. Ummm, huh? I don't have a house. I don't even have a kitchen. I live in one room, about 12' x 15', and a bathroom. Every stick of furniture and item for home accessorizing that I own is in a storage unit 12 miles away.

Go ahead and say I'm ungrateful. Tell me I'm a spoiled brat and I don't deserve a birthday gift.

As I pause to figure out how to summarize this post, what tag line to drop on the end, my eyes are filling with tears. That damned Little Adoptee just popped into the room to remind me that I don't belong in that family, that no one in that family really knows me or wants to know me.

And here I am, a day short of 58 years old, without a sweetheart to cuddle up with, without a home of my own, getting ready to send almost $26,000 to the title company for the privilege of handing my house keys to someone else, and my very own mother sends me a god-damned pair of salt and pepper shakers.

There's gotta be a joke in there somewhere. Please. Somebody tell me a joke. I've gotta find some funniness here or I'm gonna go jump off a bridge over the Rillito River. Oh wait. There's no water in that river. More futility!


Oh, okay. Here's a joke for you, courtesy of today's GrammarGirl podcast:

There were two ducks on a pond. One said, “Quack” and the other said, “I was going to say that.”