As I write this, the Christmas holiday is days away, with local businesses decked out in festive decor and families all over town getting ready to see what Santa leaves under the tree. I could spend the few hundred words of this column celebrating all the positive, enlightening, and heartwarming reasons to celebrate the Christmas season. But since this column is written by me and not a Hummel figurine come to life, I’m going to instead vent about crummy Christmas gifts I’ve received from my so-called “friends and family” over the years.
I consider myself a good gift giver. Why yes, that is that rare edition of Little Women you mentioned in passing six years ago when we shared an elevator together. I did have to order it in June and bribe four different shipping company representatives to make sure it was delivered on time. I’m so glad you like it. Oh, how do I like the Best of Spin Doctors cassette I saw you wrapping in newspaper in the bathroom five minutes before the gift exchange? Well it’s the thought that counts, really it is.
Over the years I’ve received many “it’s the thought that counts” gifts from people who I thought loved me or at least knew me well enough to have some kind of idea where my tastes and interests lie. How sadly mistaken I was. Here’s a list of the best of my worst:
Febreze “ScentStories” disc air freshener. First of all, let me describe this crazy contraption to you (for those unfamiliar). It’s an air freshener that’s about the size of a compact disc player but instead of music (prepare for your mind to be blown) it plays scents. It came with three interchangeable scent discs that were called, if my memory serves correctly, “Stinky Flower Shop,” “Poisoned Feet and Mulberries,” and “Did a Penguin Bathing in Rotten Lemons and Vanilla Bath Beads Die In Here?”
When you tried to turn it on, it sounded like the Large Hadron Collider powering up. Again, this was a present given to me by someone who professed to love me and wanted to spend the rest of their life with me.
He proudly declared, “I remember you saw it at Walmart that one time and said it looked ‘cool.'” I do not remember ever saying such a thing, but there you have it.
The worst thing about this gift was that it cost $48 and all you end up doing after you get it is thinking about all the wonderful things you could have done with $48 besides have this horrible loud thing stinking up your home. For example, taking $48 and literally setting it on fire, because that would at least have overpowered the smell.
The soundtrack to the 1997 film Volcano. I have never seen this movie. I’ve never spoken one word about it to anyone, ever in my life. There are no popular songs from bands I like on this soundtrack. There are no actual songs aside from music that played in the background, presumably while the people in this movie (again, which I have never seen) ran around and fought a volcano or something. If you ever have a volcano-themed party and you’re looking for something to set the mood, then sure, the Volcano soundtrack is an ideal holiday gift.
A Swiffer. Nothing screams yuletide blessings like giving someone a gift that says: “Hey, your house is very dusty.” To be fair, this was gifted to me when Swiffer cleaning products were new and there was a kind of rock star aura around them. Perfectly sane and rational people suddenly found themselves caught up in a wave of pro-dusting Swiffer cult hysteria, and they really can’t be blamed for their actions during that time. I think we all sort of lost our minds a little, so I’m giving this gift a pass.
Handheld digital bass fishing simulator game. This was not so much a game as a teaching tool, meant to help perfect one’s cast during the times when one is not perched on a boat, waiting to catch the perfect bass. This would have been a great gift for me if I had ever gone fishing a day in my life. I got this from a former boss, the same one who spent two years calling me “Rachel.” (In hindsight, this gift was probably the best I could have expected from him.) It’s remarkable how all those many hours I spent working late nights, researching projects, handling his mail, phone calls, and personal errands just screamed to him “SHE MUST REALLY LOVE COMPETITIVE BASS FISHING.”
Something from a relative in Texas called Killer Rattlesnake Blood Venom Murder Voodoo Barbecue Sauce. I think he made it himself. Honestly, after five years, I’m still afraid to open this thing or go near it.
A coupon to a co-worker’s side business selling candles. Look, Marge, I enjoy your funny stories about how your cats keep getting into the fridge as much as the next person who works here, but I’m not going to ever, ever buy one of those $80 candles you keep hawking, no matter how many dumb coupons you try to convince me are such a “great deal.” I’m sorry, I realize you’re probably in a lot of debt after losing all that money to that real estate pyramid scheme, but I still don’t need a candle that smells like “Mom’s Apple Pie and Fresh Linen in a Rainstorm,” or whatever.
Yes, all of those are terrible gifts to find under the tree. But at the end of the day, when all the wrapping paper is thrown away (or folded up by my Aunt Cathy to reuse next year) and the tree is finally taken down in May, it really is the thought that counts. So the next time you’re considering a gift like this to send to me (possibly because you hate me?), just send me a card.
Rebecca Rose is freelance writer and satirist whose origins are largely unknown. Some people suspect she was raised by a pack of wolves, except it is highly unlikely that wolves would put up with so much drinking and swearing. Contact her via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 29, 2016 – Jan 5, 2017.