Anne Palumbo: Swell gifts for dads who want nothing
Every Father’s Day, the kids and I never know quite how to celebrate the big guy’s fatherliness. Do we leave him alone? Or do we lavish him with nonstop attention? Do we spruce up some leftovers? Or do we take him to dinner? Do we give him a car-wash certificate? Or do we give him what he always begs for: nothing.
Please. Nothing? I don’t know how to give nothing. It’s not in my genetic makeup.
Besides, I never believe it when people say they want nothing. There’s always something out there that somebody wants.
And why would someone say they want nothing anyway? To lighten the gift-giving load?
It doesn’t work that way. Fact is, saying you want nothing heightens the burden, because then we have absolutely no idea what to give and find ourselves in a mad scramble to think of something, anything, to celebrate the uniqueness of you.
Weirdly, during our mad scramble, we often develop angry feelings toward the person we are attempting to find a gift for. Yes! Angry! Sometimes beyond angry. We’re talking voodoo-doll territory. And all because a morsel of a gift idea will not be released into our custody.
It appears that more men say they want nothing than women. At least, that has been my experience. And they don’t just say they want nothing either — they bark it with a steely, threatening gaze meant to intimidate.
Big want-nothing heads don’t intimidate me, however, because I am programmed to give gifts on special occasions and nothing can stop me. I am woman; hear my credit card roar!
But back to Father’s Day. As usual, my husband has made it known that he wants nothing for Father’s Day; and, as usual, the request has fallen on deaf ears. The kids and I are determined to light up his life with something terrific. We’ve done it in the past with such nifty gifts as a condiment squirt gun and a yodeling pickle, and, by golly, we’ll do it again.
The top contender to date? An annual subscription to the Sock-of-the-Month Club, also known as a “sockscription.” For less than a hundred buckaroos, “sockscribers” get mailed three pairs of premium black socks every four months for an entire year. If my calculations are correct, that’s nine matching pairs! Hoo-ha!
And these are no run-of-the-mill socks, either. They’re manufactured in Milan, Italy, by a second-generation family of sock artisans. Who knew the lowly sock could be taken to such artistic heights?
Anyway, despite the grief, his no-gifts stance has turned into a plus. Let’s hope he maintains this position for next year, because we’re already set with another winner: a singing toilet seat. You can thank me later for the swell ideas.
Anne Palumbo writes for Messenger Post Media. E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org.