"Surprise! I got us a second wife to help with cooking and cleaning. Her name's impossible, so I call her Thundercat." - Stan, American Dad

 

This is probably not a bad representation of Thundercat.

It’s amazing what a three-year-old remembers.

I mentioned Christmas tree, and Pugsley immediately started pointing at the corner where we had last year’s tree. Of course, last year’s tree is identical to this year’s tree, because we’re definitely the “having an artificial tree means you have the same tree every year for a tradition” kind of family and also I’m a “buy a tree once and you don’t have to buy a real tree year after year” kind of cheapskate.

There may be those among you that say that Christmas is no place for cheapskates, but I would wager that had Joseph called ahead for a reservation that there wouldn’t have been any of this manger business. I can only imagine the six layers of abuse that Mary gave him. Me? I think this is the real untold story of Christmas.

But I am not Scrooge, though really it all turned out well for him in the end and he had oodles of cash. I like Christmas very much, and I like it even more now that I’m an adult and on the giving end of presents more than the receiving end. The way that the eyes of Pugsley and The Boy light up when they pull those great chunks of coal out of their stockings? Priceless.

Okay, I don’t do that. I’m not a monster. In reality, we try to keep our holidays here a little less strained than some, and that’s all for the good. I don’t know of any sibling rivalry in either family, but I am attempting to stir some up between The Boy and Pugsley, just to keep the holidays interesting when I’m older. I think I’ll tell each of them that I like the other better. That might do it.

But, sadly, right now I have to deal with small children who believe happily that Christmas is all about love and family, about spending time together, about (Houston version) slightly cooler weather, trees, candy canes, time off from school, and presents. I think they vaguely understand the religious connotations.

Me? I have the problem of selecting gifts. Not for Pugsley and The Boy – I know (and, perhaps, The Mrs. knows even better) what little boys like – Light Sabers® and Legos™ and science kits and soldering irons and books and BB-guns and slingshots. Anything that can put an eye out counts as a big plus.

No, my problem is much deeper, Internet. It’s The Mrs.

Oh, sure, The Mrs. is happy to sit and write the night away, and is happy with her two pairs of shoes and four pairs of jeans and has asked for very little while we’ve been married, but darned if I can figure out what she wants for Christmas.

DVD’s? We’ve got oodles that we’ve no time to watch.

Pez®? The Mrs. has a lifetime supply. The Mrs. even has the coveted Yosemite Sam© dispenser.

Watches? The Mrs. has enough watches for Kali®.

BB-guns? No. The Mrs. would shoot my eye out.

Diamonds? No. The Mrs. is unimpressed by highly compressed carbon. “Carbon’s carbon,” is what The Mrs. says.

So, Internet, help a friend out.

Oh, sure, I can think back to those two Christmases in the past where The Mrs. went online and created a shopping list of things that she would like, printed them, and then handed them to me. I picked from the lists and ordered presents (The Mrs. was kind enough to specify size) and a Merry Christmas was had by all.

Surprise value? Hideously low, but it was outweighed by the “husband’s present not sucking” value, like the time I got her a commemorative plate of the Pope visiting Dodger® Stadium, complete with photocopied certificate of authenticity.

So, Internet, give a guy a hand. Help me with a good surprise, so I can keep using both eyes.