past present

There is a beautiful old French saying that goes something like this:

“The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.”

It sounds much better in French, though I forget who said it exactly. But based upon personal life experience, I’d like to offer this somewhat less eloquent, Americanized variation:

“The entertainment value of the receiving experience can be worth WAY more than the gift, the manner of giving, your car payment, and the national debt combined, depending upon who’s currently President.”

This might sound a lot better in French too, or maybe even Portuguese, but I digress.

My point is this, and perhaps you can relate: I have had some decidedly wacky gift-getting experiences. As I get older, I realize that I’m losing my ability to remember the actual gifts themselves, but the ordeal of receiving remains uncomfortably vivid.

Exhibit A: my mother, who for years worked in the customer service department of a major department store. Combine mom’s employee discount with her God-given ability to sniff out bargains, and you’ve got the recipe for some amazingly good deals. So good, in fact, that our beloved matriarch developed a habit of screaming out the purchase price as the gift was being opened. It was almost like pulling the string on my old Chatty Cathy doll. Rrrrip goes the paper. “TWO DOLLARS!” Rrrrip goes the paper. “A BUCK EIGHTY-NINE!” Bridal showers, memorials, you name it, didn’t matter. No occasion was too solemn for what we eventually termed MMMT, Mom’s Markdown-Motivated Tourette’s. At some point, you’d realize everyone in the room had begun silently calculating your personal discount quotient in their head.

Moving on to my 23rd birthday. It started out as a nice enough occasion: family, cake, double-helpings of Lou Malnati’s pizza. I’m not sure whose idea it was to hire the surprise entertainment, but I do know that’s not where the real problem started. The real problem started when the agency sent my perfectly appropriate G-rated birthday clown to the bachelorette party, and the bachelorette party stripper to me. Things got worse when this individual, a burly fellow named Basil with what can only be described as deeply impaired powers of observation, launched into his act with such unrestrained gusto that he failed to note the preponderance of 5-year-olds in the room. What ensued looked like a tame version of Godzilla vs. Mothra, with clothes flying, kids and parents screaming, food splattering and furniture smashing as every last guest fled the area. There was even the brief threat of blood as my boyfriend at the time, probably more shocked than anyone, actually picked up Basil and tried to deck him in mid-act. But ironically, and fortunately for his face, Basil had at least opted to keep his glasses on.

And then there’s that time-honored practice of re-gifting. Once, when I still lived in my tiny efficiency apartment, a neighbor presented me with a marginally-used canister of blue crystal bath salts. This was intended as a get-well present following surgery. Yes, Harbor Mist – I remember the name and the scent to this day. There were only two real problems:

1) My doctor had prohibited actual bathing for two weeks; and
2) My bathroom was only equipped with a shower stall.

I gazed at my well-meaning friend as she beamed at me over the giant utility container -- the fragrant aroma of Harbor Mist suffusing our nostrils -- struggling to formulate just the right words of gratitude. I envisioned myself running in small circles around my cramped shower enclosure, stitched up like Raggedy Ann, tossing handfuls of Harbor Mist bath salts in the air so they would stick to my damp skin like kitty litter.

Fortunately, the reason for her unusual gift selection soon became fairly obvious as she sneezed mightily, then sneezed again, and again, spraying half the container contents all over the room.

Price of the actual gift: Free, minus the cost of professional carpet cleaning. Memory of the look on both our faces: Priceless. And I guess that part is truly the gift that keeps on giving.