I recently set sail, alone and unafraid, to the nearest shopping center in search of last-minute stocking stuffers and miscellaneous gifts hated by mothers attempting to rid their homes of junk and clutter before the new year. Over the last six years, I have mastered the art of buying gifts that, on the surface, appeal to the sights, sounds, and smells of my children, but are met with repulsion by my wife. It is especially frustrating for her because the kids immediately place her presents back underneath the tree while my presents are played with for hours. My wife can’t stand the fact that her presents require explanation while mine are simply understood from the picture of the kids having fun on the toy box.
I am amazed because my wife is a smart woman but she still hasn’t realized that kids enjoy kids’ presents, gifts made for children –not gifts adored by her.
I love the holidays, because it is the only time of year that I can barter for gifts that are not approved by my wife. My local shopping complex is especially accommodating for adults needing to replenish with liquids throughout the day. I discovered that buying gifts while moderately buzzed not only enhances the shopping experience, but ensures the purchase of the biggest eye sore. It has always been easier for me to spend money while feeling warm and fuzzy inside. So I spend and spend, with old Saint Nick spirit, ignoring all recommendations from the wife, and indulging in kids’ toys as if I were buying for a younger me.
As I unload each gift (one more hideous than the other) into the trunk, my conscience intervenes, instructing me to return to the mall and buy something extra for my wife. Hopefully the extra gift will distract her from the fact that I have contributed to more kids’ paraphernalia. When I entered the store that designs clothing made to accentuate a female’s figure, not to mention a male’s imagination, I immediately ask for the assistance of the twenty-something sales girl hired to model the merchandise. After careful deliberation, and exemplifying assistance from the sales woman, I purchase the items and exit the store. As I make my way down the elevator, I observe a pair of basketball shoes that would make a perfect gift for me. I buy the shoes, and without knowing, place the shoebox in the bag containing my wife’s assorted (don’t be mad) presents.
The next morning, while playing in my weekly basketball game at the gym, I got into a heated argument with one of the local players, Darius. I was in the middle of defending my position as to why Michael Vick deserves the Most Valuable Player award as I changed out of my sweaty t-shirt and into a clean one for the next game. In the midst of my argument, I noticed that Darius had stopped talking; he was less interested in what I was saying and more interested in what was hanging from my collar. Then without warning, Darius began to yell, “Yo, what up with the draws? what up with the drawwwsss?!” Before I knew it, the game in progress had stopped, and everyone in the gym had come over to witness the beige panties hanging outside of my collar. As I reached towards my neck area, I immediately felt the lace followed by three strings and a front cover. Trying to play off g-strings hanging from your shirt at a local pick-up game is not an easy feat, but I did my best. I immediately bagged on Darius, explaining that he would have had a pair of granny panties hanging from his collar, and stashed the beige T-back in my basketball bag.
Needless to say, my basketball experience has never been the same, and my wife won again!
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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