I love Christmas…always have, always will. But, like most things, it’s not without its share of weird and unpleasant memories, especially when you have a serial cheapskate in your midst.
Hey, I know, I know…it’s not all about the presents. Except when you’re a kid and about to open presents. That’s when the anticipation is almost better than the act…almost.
Back when I was a tweener, I struggled to control my gag reflex any time certain people showed up at our doorstep, the ones intent on sprinkling a little soot on our Christmas spirit. Who would do such a thing? Well, Aunt Rose would. I know, I was there…on the receiving end of her worst gift-giving instincts.
Aunt Rose was my brother Frank’s godmother. Back then, that was all it took to attain aunt or uncle status.
Aunt Rose used to hustle Avon products at house parties and, no doubt, hanging parties, bowling alleys, back alleys, church socials, anti-socials, and anywhere else even a few “gotta have some” souls gathered. No matter what the occasion, out came the Avon samples and display products. It really bothered Aunt Rose that the latter could never be sold…until, that is, she hatched a most Grinch-like scheme: “Display product today, Christmas gift tomorrow!”
As the godson, Frank was pretty much spared the short end of Aunt Roses’s gift stick. So were the rest of us, I suppose, through our toddler and tyke years. And yet once our suspenders were replaced by belts, all bets were off. Because just like that, the half-way decent Davy Crockett slipper socks gave way to Avon aftershave lotion – beautifully packaged, I might add, in the handy Santa’s boot bottle.
Like the gift or not, our parents had a certain way of coaxing reluctant “thank you’s” from us, no matter how ill-deserved they might be.
“You know, Aunt Rose, I was just telling my Mom that I can’t seem to get enough of this sh__, er, scent. How incredibly thoughtful of you!”
“Really, Bobby? Oh, that makes me feel wonderful!”
“Apparently so does a few dozen biscuits, but I wouldn’t go bragging about it!” (That proceeded from the mind of Nasty Bobby, my silent but lethal alter ego.)
And then there was brother Frank, the perfect godchild.
Aunt Rose: “Merry Christmas, Frankie. Oh my, how big you’ve gotten.”
Nasty Bobby (still silent, of course): “Hey Aunt Rose, when did you become a size 20?!”
Aunt Rose: “Cammie (my mom), what have you been feeding these boys?!
Nasty Bobby: “Oh, the usual…caviar and grapes for his highness, axle grease for us castaways.”
Aunt Rose: “Frankie, come over here and give your Aunt Rose a great big hug.”
Nasty Bobby: “Hey Frank, wanna borrow my arm extensions?”
Aunt Rose: “Look Frankie, here’s something just for you. Something extra special. Now go ahead and open it…I can’t wait to see the expression on your face.”
Nasty Bobby: “And I can’t wait to see you scarf down another pound or two of my Mom’s lasagna!”
Frank: “Aunt Rose, this is a flannel bathrobe, rope belt and all, I shall always treasure.” (Frank had a certain knack for hyperbole.)
Aunt Rose: “Speaking of ropes, this is for you Bobby. Judging by that chocolate smudge on your chin, you might wanna open it now!” (She hoots and hollers over her little Avon soap-on-a-rope joke.)
Nasty Bobby: “Ah, good one Aunt Rose. Can I get you anything else…a bale of hay, perhaps?!”
When you’re still young-ish and not clever enough to produce original, hard-hitting insults, you cull what you can from the “fat” pile. As you’ve just seen, I wasn’t very clever. Nor was Aunt Rose fat. Nonetheless, she continues her reign (atop a mound of Italian cookie crumbs) as my personal all-time worst Christmas gift giver.
Bon appetit!