Lest readers of my last post think the hideous green vest is the worst gift ever, let me tell you about the one that got away.
I was three months pregnant and sick as (ironically) a dog when the call came.
“My husband is out of town,” I told the earnest young woman on the other end of the phone. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m returning his call. He inquired about purchasing our retired sled dog team,” she said.
Retired sled-dog team? Wah?
Turns out my husband had hatched a plan to buy this for me for my birthday – eight retired dogs and a sled. It is true that I had often expressed an interest in riding on a sled pulled by sled dogs. That did not, however, equate to a desire to own one.
I’d had a rough pregnancy. I hadn’t eaten anything but boxed macaroni and cheese in weeks and had spent most of my evenings curled in the fetal position wishing for death. The thought of a future slinging dog food and picking up you-know-what sounded hideous. Fortunately, I was able to plead an upcoming change in family status and get off the phone.
My dear husband is a little hit-and-miss in the gift giving department. There is a lot of thought that goes into the purchase of a sled dog team. Not exactly sure what kind of thought, but I’ve got to give him credit for that. He was a big winner the year he handpicked every pearl for a beautiful long string I received as an anniversary gift. Ditto for the Mother’s Day I arrived home to one of the famous blue boxes. But there was a Christmas where he not only bought me a pair of slippers (unromantic) and left the price tag on (unobservant), but also stuck the box, unwrapped, on a branch of the Christmas tree (unmentionable).
He keeps me guessing, anyway. Maybe a little mystery is good in a marriage that’s lasted as long as ours.
More contributions for the worst gift ever? There have been some doozies so far.