Off The Record
I Was So Offended By My Husband’s Christmas Present That I Planned A Revenge The Next Year
Some presents make people happy. A Christmas gift from my husband? It stoked a flame of anger. The expression on his face when he opened his gift was my actual Christmas present, and I spent the following year planning the ideal reaction.
Have you ever been presented with a gift that simultaneously made your blood boil and your stomach drop? I’m not referring to a fruit cake that no one wants or ugly clothing. I’m talking about the kind of gift that leaves you wondering if the giver even knows you. Or worse, if they give a damn at all. I spent a whole year plotting retaliation for what my husband Murphy did one Christmas.
We never had much money in our home.
Murphy put in double shifts in the downtown metal fabrication plant, which left his back hurting and his hands calloused. Proud of supporting our family, he would return home smelling of machine oil and metal shavings, but he was too exhausted to notice anything else.
In the meantime, I scraped together a meager income by watching the kids of my neighbors and tutoring them in math. This helped keep the lights on and the food on the table. We squeezed every penny till it screamed, between home payments and developing teenagers.
We agreed that we would scrape together enough money for our parents and our girls’ Christmas presents, but not for ourselves. Our 16-year marriage was successful until Murphy changed the rules without telling me first.
“Hey Susan! I have something for you, so come on over.” Ten days before to Christmas, one evening, Murphy’s voice echoed loudly through our tiny home.
I dropped the arithmetic assignment I was grading for little Tommy, who was still struggling with long division, because of the excitement in his voice.
I entered the living room after wiping my hands on my apron.
He had a huge box wrapped in glittery paper that must have cost at least $5 a roll, and he was standing there smiling like a child who had just discovered the cookie jar.
“What’s this about?” With my heart pounding, I inquired.
For a man who usually thought tape and newspaper were sufficient for any gift, the box was enormous, almost waist-deep, and wrapped with uncommon care.
“It’s a Christmas gift for you! I wanted to do something unique this year, even though I know we don’t generally do this. Something significant!”
“Murphy, we can’t afford—”
“Sus, just wait until Christmas Eve! You will adore it! You’ve never received anything like this before, I assure you.”
I was unaware of his correctness.
With their art tools in hand, our daughters Emma and Mia peeked over the corner, giggling as if they were still children and not the teenagers they had grown into.
Whispering “Dad’s been so secretive about it,” Mia said. “He wouldn’t even let us help wrap it!”
“He spent forever in the garage getting it ready, Mom!” Emma said, her mischievous eyes glimmering.
That ought to have been my first clue.
That package taunted me for the next 10 days under our Christmas tree. I used to wonder what might be inside every time I passed it.
Perhaps Murphy had been saving for a particular occasion all year. Perhaps he had caught me coveting those silky bedspread in the storefront or recalled that I had mentioned how much I had missed having a good TV since ours broke last spring.
I would occasionally catch him gazing at the box with a proud little smile, as if whatever was inside had solved all of the world’s problems.
There was a lot of activity on Christmas Eve. Murphy’s parents were seated on our shabby couch that had seen better days, while our girls were stretched on the tree’s floor.
While his father, Frank, sipped his normal cup of coffee with a dash of whiskey, his mother, Eleanor, continued to give me knowing glances.
Thanks to the three cookie-scented candles I’d bought at the dollar store, the room had an aroma of pine and cinnamon. Our antique radio was playing Christmas carols. As I placed a dish of brownies on the table, I saw that the neighbors’ lighting display outside was creating rainbow shadows through our windows.
“Open it, Mom!” Emma gave a little squeal. “It’s the largest gift beneath the tree! More substantial than the one Dad got Grandma.”
With his work boots tapping excitedly on the carpet, Murphy gave a supportive nod. “All right, Sus. Present what Santa brought you to everyone.”
I tried to enjoy the moment as I unwrapped the paper, my fingers shaking. I lifted the lid as the females leaned forward.
My heart stopped beating.
“A vacuum cleaner?” I muttered as I gazed at the package with the happy product pictures that showcased all of its “amazing features.”
“Top of the line!” Murphy smiled. “I tested it in the garage already, and it functions flawlessly! It quickly removes all of the metal shavings! even handles the corners.”
The females looked at each other and then started laughing. While Frank suddenly became very interested in what was in his coffee mug, likely wishing he had poured more whiskey, Eleanor squeezed her lips together till they almost vanished.
“Oh, and make sure to put it back in the garage when you’re done with it in here,” Murphy continued, his smile as if he had just handed me the crown jewels. It will spend the most of its time there. This baby’s suction is ideal for my workstation! There will be no more metal dust anywhere.
Murphy’s thunderous footsteps echoed behind me as I dashed to our bedroom. With the sound of Christmas carols taunting me from downstairs, I started crying as soon as he shut the door.
“A hoover? Really?” “A vacuum cleaner is your first Christmas present to me in sixteen years?”
“What is the matter with that? It’s useful. Are you aware of the price of these items? It’s quite high quality.”
“Realistic? You wrapped up a garage vacuum that you got for yourself as a Christmas gift for me! You might as well have wrapped a bucket and mop as a gift.”
“Susan, don’t be dramatic. For the entire family—”
“It would have meant more to have a $5 bracelet! Just a small gesture that you considered me to be your wife rather than your maid! Something that didn’t say,” “Here’s another way to clean up after everyone,” but rather, “I love you.”
His jaw tightened like it did when the payments were due, and his face darkened.
It seems like you’re behaving like a pampered princess. Recall your origins. Your parents are farmers! Are they even aware of the existence of a vacuum cleaner? At least I’m considering remodeling our house.
“Get out!” I let out a shout. “GET. OUT.”
He said, “Fine,” and yanked the door open. “You’re acting absurdly. It’s a nice present! Most women would be appreciative! Because gifts aren’t something you would want, they’re what a family could use.”
Wrapped in anger and sadness, I slept on the couch that night. I could hear Murphy telling his parents that I was being “selfish” about the whole situation through the thin walls.
Frank’s grunt of disgust was audible, but Eleanor’s whispered reply was too soft to read.
A plan started to take shape in my mind as I lay there in the dark, watching the Christmas lights of the neighbors dance across our ceiling. As they say, revenge is best enjoyed cold, or in this instance, wrapped in glitzy paper and let to wait for a full year.
I grinned into the night, already figuring out how much I would have to save from tutoring fees to make it ideal.
I invited all of my relatives who lived within driving distance for Christmas the next year. Anybody who would enjoy a nice show, including aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Murphy complained about the cost until he noticed his present beneath the tree. This time, the largest box was wrapped in paper that cost $10 per roll.
His eyes brightened like a child’s as he questioned, “What’s this?”
“Just a tiny bit of something unique. Honey, you do so much for us. This Christmas, I wanted it to be one to remember.”
Adding “Mom went shopping all by herself,” Mia said. “She refused to even identify it for us! But when she got home, she seemed so content.”
I said, “Cost a pretty penny too,” as I saw Murphy’s eyes widen.
Like a child attempting to guess what Santa brought, he spent the next few days shaking the box when he thought no one was looking.
Once more, Christmas Eve arrived. The whole family was gathered in our living room, watching Murphy as he got closer to his present.
Uncle Bill and his three children gathered around the fireplace, Aunt Martha sitting on the couch’s armrest.
I had intimated that there would be some “holiday entertainment,” and even cousin Pete, who never attended family get-togethers, had showed up.
“Open it, Dad!” With her phone ready to capture the moment, Emma urged. “The suspense is killing everyone!”
The present wrapper came loose. As Murphy gazed at the industrial-sized case of toilet paper in the box, his expression changed from one of excitement to one of bewilderment to horror.
With the words “extra soft comfort” printed in bright letters across the packaging and the words “perfect for home AND workshop use!” it was a high-end four-ply. strong red print.
“TOILET PAPER??” he stammered. “What is this?”
Putting on my best game show host voice, I got to my feet.
“This is high-quality four-ply toilet paper! Because Christmas is about what the family needs, not what we desire. Yes, honey? Additionally, this will look great in both your garage and bathroom! Given how much you enjoy useful presents, I even purchased the industrial size.”
Our girls burst out giggling. Aunt Martha’s eggnog choked her. Uncle Bill gave his knee such a forceful slap that it reverberated, and his children fell apart with laughter. In fact, Cousin Pete tumbled out of his chair.
“Who gives their husband toilet paper for Christmas?” Murphy’s face flushed as he surveyed the room filled with laughing family members.
I gave a lovely smile. “Who gives their wife a vacuum cleaner?”
As he hurried upstairs, muttering to himself, the family burst out in laughter and applause. When no one was looking, Eleanor even gave me a covert high five.
“Well played, Susan,” Frank said with a laugh and a salute to his coffee mug. “Very well done.” Perhaps he will reconsider “practical” gifts next year.
Five years have passed since then. Since then, Murphy hasn’t brought up Christmas gifts, and the word “selfish” has inexplicably vanished from his vocabulary.
I do, however, have a special shelf in the closet that is prepared for next year’s wrapping paper, in case he ever comes up with another clever idea for “practical” gifts. The best retaliation isn’t always served cold; sometimes it’s presented with a bow and perhaps some high-quality four-ply toilet paper to wrap it in.
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