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Jett Superior laid this on you on || December 14, 2006 || 11:58 pm

The one where I’m greedy

Holy mother of chimbley-loving fat men: Boy, do I want this for Christmas. And how.

I bet you I won’t get one. I bet you I get pot holders. Pot! Holders! Okay, okay, I love to bake, but I’m very picky about what pot holders I use. I’m a craftsman, after all.

For some crazy reason, I think it’s time to tell you people what I really, truly want for Christmas. Sure, I’m well taken care of during the holidays, but there are things that my heart cries out for and has for some time…things that I’m not getting. Typically I’m pretty happy with whatever comes down the chute in the way of gift-type things, but ever since Maxim’s Aunt Petunia got me the hideous resin tabletop waterfall fountain that plays music and the screaming of seagulls and is sound- or motion-activated, there has been a growing discontent with gift-related passivity. Plus, I ain’t gettin’ any younger, you know? Life is whizzing on by. When I was twenty, I could afford to take one or two on the presenty chin and laugh it off. I’m dipping my toes into middle age now and haven’t the wherewithal to get all lathered up about something that I can’t fully get behind. The fountain had craggy peaks, y’all, and a lighthouse perched at the very top. It was the lighthouse combined with the squawking gulls that pushed me over the edge.

You want to know the difference between males and females (let’s not count your average metrosexual into this equation for sake of supporting my gender-slanted argument, okay? Thanks.) in the whole gift-giving department? When you fellas say in passing, “Hey, that’s cooo-oool,” or “Man, this thing is awesome,” or even, “Sure would like to have me one-a those….”, most of we ladies listen, and we furiously scribble it down in the mental notebook. Then, VOILA!, there it is at the anniversary or birthday or Christmas gift exchange. When the shoe’s on the other foot, so to speak, when we gals say these things to y’all, your general response is something along the lines of “Yeah-eahhhh.” and instead of furious mental scribbling, your brains are going, “Uh, deeehhuh, wonder if there’s beer anywhere in the near vicinity??”

Take this not as a slight, Dear Menfolk, as we love you very much In Spite Of. Plus, you’re better at things like, oh, chainsawing treelimbs than we are. I’m not saying We Laydehs couldn’t do such things in a have-to situation (so please, Rowdy Feminists, don’t fucking e-mail me on this one, SHIT.), but there are physiological factors like upper body strength and centers of gravity to account for. So, sawing away at big hunks of wood (ha-HA!): You have that going for you. A man covered in bark chips is a verrra sexy man indeedy.

There I go chasing rabbits again. What was this entry about, hmm?

Maxim did superbly the last couple-three years (which, coincidentally, were the first instances that he remembered to stuff me a stocking, my most favorite part of all the ‘gets’); I could tell he heeded my advice given when he expressed slight Gifty Befuddlement long about year five of our marriage. He’d come to me, admitting the slight panic he felt yearly when he asked what I wanted and I (at times) responded, “I got a tree. I’m making ten mountains of cookies. I’m good, man.”

“Look,” I told him, “when we’re out wandering around and I mention that I like something, write it down. I lust for very few material things; this should be easy. At Christmas or birthday time, reference back to your list.” Two years ago he told me that the year prior was a breeze due to his heeding that little nugget of advice. And I realized that I must say, “Gee, I’d like to have THAT movie” a whole lot….but I got Reefer Madness, so I cannot complain. I smoked out the day after Christmas and watched it, much to my giggly delight. Okay, the smoked out part is a lie, but the watch and giggle parts are one-hundred-per true.

In my voracious, greedy heart of very hearts, there is a pretty steady list that doesn’t get added to all that often. I’ma let you, my Muffinass Confidantes, in on that list:

Though I have a small collection of the garden variety handyman accessories, it is far from complete. I have your basic wire cutters and strippers, orbital sander, power drill, punches, tape measure, palm sander, safety goggles, Dremel tool, yardstick, eensy assortment of hammers and screwdrivers, etc. It would hurt my feelings not one whit to have this collection grown and rounded out. Nothing says ‘I think you are a sexy, capable woman’ better than hand and power tools, don’t you agree? Dremel tool accessories would make excellent stocking stuffers. Dremel tool accessories make me all kinds of horny. If there is confusion, a gift card to Lowe’s will fit the bill.

I been asking for the “_new”>Alan Lomax Collection for, oh, about fifty-seven fucking years, and that is a long damn time considering I just barely tip the scales on my thirties. I wants me some negro spirituals! I neeeeeds me some gritty blues! Irish! Folk! Sonnnngs! Why can’t anyone seem to understand how happy and fulfilled I would be to have this set?

A brick of weed. Um, maybe after the kids move out. Then I can more suitably stagger about the house clad only in boyshorts and a wifebeater, yelling for a turkey-bacon wrap. This is the natural state of woman, dintchoo know?

What is sexier than a Swiss Army Knife, with its geegaws and whatsits and thingamajigs? It’s red, it’s smooth, it’s sleek. I’m talking the big-ass one. The one with tools you, your momma, nor your grandmomma ever heard of. The one that you could take into the outback and trust your complete existence to. The one that does everything (with your help, of course) save for translate Sanskrit. And hell, there may even be an attachment for that, too, but you’ve just not had time to get around to looking at all the components. But you will, oh yes you will.

My reading tastes have shifted over time. Used to be, you couldn’t foist a biography on me for all the gold in California. Now? I gobble them straight up. Any and all music –especially rrrrawk– biographies set me aquiver. Maxim is learning: I’ve received books about the Clash, U2, The Stones and Nick Cave in the last couple of years. I’ve been known to take in some hefty books about the first ladies (Nancy Reagan=pure evil) and the founding fathers (Ben Franklin, you neato motherfucker!) as well.

Knee socks, most especially the stripey variety. Girls are lucky because we get to wear them with mary janes. Boys are lucky because they get to see us wear them with mary janes. WIN-WIN, YOU PEOPLE!

BOOZE! There is naught wrong with something nice and sparkly and nerve-soothing from a bottle. Amber is a pretty color during the holiday season, you know? Redclay is smart this way: Year before last, he sent me a fine, fiiiine bottle of Tres Generaciones Anejo to sip on while I pounded out my ‘wannabevonnegut’ angst. Always, always trust a blueblood Southerin drunkard to pick your spirits for you.

Long before I recall having a memory, it has been my flaming desire to have a hefty, overlarge and imposing dictionary. A Bigass Dictionary, if you will. It must have onionskin pages and precise, serious typesetting and cause herniation somewhere in the innermost workings of man when attempting to move it from one bookshelf to t’other. A hand-tooled leather cover and some nice gilting wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either. I’m not exactly sure the expense of such a thing. Whosoever delivered it up into my sweaty, wordnerd paws could claim me as their Bitch For Life, however. So you can see, it would be Truly Well Worth The Expense.

As well as being a girl, I am A Person Who Takes Great Delight In Smelling Nummy. Not in that grody, over-the-top way that some women have, mind you: I like a warm, subtle touch of scent that does not in any way hover fourteen feet in front of me and leave a vapor trail behind. I know Those Laydehs, and Those Laydehs need an olfactory adjustment. No, I like for someone to be conversing away a couple of feet from me and say, “Man, is it you that smells so spankin’ good?” Lush always wins, and sometimes just a little soap at the start of the day is all you need. When I do indeed step out onto a perfume limb, I’ll do a little splish behind the knees, in the crooks of the elbows and a sort of fly-by behind the neck. Ysatis, Musk by Alyssa Ashley (a sentimental favorite from the ole broke-as-all-fuck days), Boucheron, and Burberry London are pretty much staples. I’d like to try Marc Jacobs and L’or De Torrente before I drop a dime on a bottle. Or even before someone else does.

Portry, ahhhh, sweet portry. Despite all my years of self-larnin’ and specific favorites, there are so many wordsmiths out there I’ve yet to discover. I will gladly accept with earnest enthusiasm any volume of portry by anybody.

And there you have it, a well-rounded list of things covering various price points. I know my people have already finished their Christmas shopping for this year, as they are related to me and I like to have things sewn up by roundabout September (malls in December piss me off; this year’s tardiness was predicated by the monstrous repair bill for the Superior Magic Stealth Vehicle). SOOO, I will print this list out in quintuplicate and distribute it accordingly in the coming year.


(happy birthday, bobby haysoos. feelin’ ya, yo.)

2 worked it out »

  1. skillzy 12.15.2006

    When I was showing off all the Lush Xmas presents that I bought to my co-workers, one of the ladies remarked, “you are just a big ol’ hairy girl!” At which point I dropped my britches and proved her wrong.

    OK, maybe I made up the last part.

  2. redclay 12.15.2006

    this always tickled me.

    presents aren’t hard.

    a girl will flat out TELL you what she wants.

    the only thing, they’ll tell you 8 months out, just to see if you’re listening.

    the truly great presents, tho.

    you get her something she didn’t even know she wanted.

    you got to be around her a whole lot, then, and pay attention.

    but you do that successfully?

    it’s like cooking the first great meal she has ever had.

    hang on buddy, and smile for the camera.

    it’s going to be a bumpy, a wonderful and bumpy ride.


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