What do YOU Want for Christmas
Girl to girl, when your significant other asks, "What do you want for Christmas, Baby?" NEVER, and I mean NEVER make the grave mistake of saying, "Oh, nothing, Sweetie. I have everything I need." You and I know that this is our way of saying, "Yes, I want something, but I want it to be expensive and beautiful, requiring at least two of your paychecks and a second lein on your mortgage to pay for. My words are only meant to convey "I haven't a selfish bone in my body." Of course you and I know that this is a pack of bald faced lies, but how else can we expect to get on Santa's nice list? Tragically, men don't understand this secret code, so tehy'll take you literally. WHen my husband came up empty handed on my 30th birthday, I wept openly while he stood in front of my completely flummoxed (I love this word. Just found it while reading The Hobbit to my kids. Makes me seem a lot smarter than I really am.) Moving on: So, he told me he'd run out to McDonald's to pick me up some dinner (like tht would help--talk about the last straw--that sent the wailing to a higher decibel level altogether!) Fortunately, the tears were a good investment, because when I opened up my quarter pounder, out fell a mustard slathered diamond ring.) Poor Rune. Think about the poor guys name, after all. Rune. Pronounced "Runah." That's a major handicap in right there. He's Norwegian and most of these Norwegians are born with this setback of having weird names. Dagfin. Aslaug, Bente. Knut. My favorite, though is Odd. Seriously. Isn't that an odd name? ANyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So my final advice to you girls: Be specific about what you ask for. In fact, order it or go pick it out yourself, wrap the present, and shove it into his hands saying, "This is from you to me." If you answer, "Oh, any little thing is fine with me," you are in grave danger of getting either a pair of hot mits, and electric skillet, an annual subscription to Sports Illustrated, or a new set of golf clubs (and you don't play.) If he does bring you a dud (or worse yet, nothing)engage in a prolonged sulking stint punctuated by quiet, but tragic sobs and nose blowing. When he asked, "What's wrong, Dear," answer, "Nothing" then push the sobbing up a notch. Eventually, he'll admit that whatever it is is totally his fault and he promises to kiss your feet and become your personal love slave forever.(Actually, most of us are too exhausted for tha. Better opt for a month of sex free nights, instead.) Then, beat a path to the nearest Neiman Marcus as fast as your Prada shoes can carry you, and max out his credit card without mercy.