Monday, December 21, 2009

On the 12th Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .

I used to be a gift-giving die-hard. I never shelled out a ton of cash but I devoted serious thought and creativity to choosing gifts, especially for my beaus. I have tracked down little wooden statuettes from Kauai, which relate to personal jokes from our honeymoon for David. I have scoured ebay to locate his beloved childhood toys. I took the time.

Guess what I don’t have, now that I’ve got two little kids? Time. But that’s not the whole story. The real reason I don’t undertake these epic quests for the perfect gift for David is that I’m too spent after undertaking that quest for our kids. Did I ever tell you how I once made a “Mommy Doll” out of socks, yarn, fabric scraps and such – all in one night – because Primo told me that was what he needed to stop crying hysterically at the drop-off movement class he had to go to with his school? I know that some of you are super crafty and patient and making a doll facsimile of yourself is no big thang, you’d do it just for shits and giggles. But making one Mommy Doll wipes me out.

So lately I have not been giving David many gifts for holidays and birthdays and anniversaries and such. At least not the conventional kind. Because I finally found out what he really wants.

Those of you who are minors or don’t want to hear about oral sex would do well to stop reading now.

A bottle of beer and a blowie.

Happy Birthday.

Happy Anniversary.

Happy Bastille Day.

Merry Christmas.

If you’re interested in trying this at home, you should know that the bottle of beer is optional.

I find we’re both really happy with this arrangement. Really, it’s the gift that keeps on giving in that it keeps your marriage alive despite the exhaustion, irritation and occasional bouts of loathing which pop up when you’ve been together a while.

This Christmas though, my greedy little husband had an idea. He was inspired by reading The Twelve Days of Christmas to the kids incessantly.

Yes, you guessed it.

“You know what would be a great present this year?” says he, “The Twelve Blowjobs of Christmas.”

Makes for a lousy song, I pointed out. Very repetitive.

“Plus, I’m not a sex worker,” I replied, “And that’s the only person who could give twelve blowies at a time.”

“One a day will work.”

Give ‘em an inch . . .