If car and diamond commercials have taught Americans anything about the holidays, it's that the best gift comes last. It comes at that moment, when all the presents have been opened and cookies eaten, that a well-dressed and attractive husband appears with a small box. In it is either a) a diamond pendant or b) keys to a new Lexus. The wife cries, the music plays, everyone else feels a little inadequate and if it's a diamond commercial, maybe a tear or two is shed.
When I found myself on the receiving end of a last gift at the Miskimen Family Christmas 1996, I knew I was in for something special.
""This is something we know you wanted,"" my grandfather said.
I tore at the paper. Could it be that LEGO River Hideout that I'd wanted? Maybe it was the Royal King's Castle! Pieces of little torn-up snowmen flew through the air, ribbons came off and I could feel cardboard.
""I just can't wait to see the look on your face,"" my step-grandmother cooed. The entire room was silent with anticipation. All of the books, the videotapes, the pajama sets had just been opening acts for what was to be the gift of all gifts. My parents sat across from me, smiling, encouraging me, with their camera ready.
And then I saw it. The Bedazzler: The Stud and Rhinestone setter, the number one craft item in America!
""Is this it?"" I asked. I could hear how unthrilled I sounded.
""Well it does come with over 300 rhinestones and studs,"" my step-grandmother said. ""And look-—you can make cut tops and baseball hats and put shiny studs on your Keds shoes!""
Her sales pitch wasn't working. I looked at the pink box, with its beaming girl in rhinestoned generic baseball hat and studded jean jacket, all given that extra touch of marketing sparkle and felt nauseous. I swore—on that pink box, on each of the 50 assorted color rhinestones and on the honor of my wonderfully stud-free Keds shoes—that I would never, ever let something like this happen again.
But it did. In 1997, there was a Precious Moments gift set meant for a different cousin that I had been confused with; 1998, a set of Christian romance novels (it complimented my brother's set of Christian adventure books, in which an Indiana Jones-esque man unearthed ancient artifacts while converting Amazon Indians); four years ago a poncho that again had been meant for another blond-haired cousin (""There's just so many of you that we get you all confused!""); two years ago one of those crocheted Barbie dresses that also hides a Kleenex box (it was a Southern belle model); and last year a baking pan. That gift actually wasn't that bad.
Over the years I've tried to perfect my list. I've changed wording and taught my family the difference between the colors ""stone"" and ""khaki."" I've tried a visual list, so that people could understand the general style of what I want. I narrowed it down to four specific items. I've even switched to practical lists in a reverse-psychology move, in the hopes that my parents would be so impressed that my Christmas list consisted of Microsoft Word, business cards and long underwear that at the very least they would comply or get me something frivolous. It didn't happen.
So after we finished our turkey and choked down the homemade cranberry sauce my aunt made and forgot to put sugar in, and my grandfather brought out the big three catalogs for us to highlight-—Gander Mountain, Cabela's and Land's End—I resigned myself to another uneventful Christmas.
At least I can make rhinetsone Christmas Tree T-shirts. Just in case I don't get one this year.
