Gifts that grate
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
This is a brief public service announcement to menfolk out there
who
are intent on impressing the womenfolk in their lives. Repeat
after
me: “I will not, now or ever, buy any woman an iron unless she
specifically asks for it by name, brand and serial number.”
Frankly, all sane women hate ironing so much that they couldn't
care
less if their new iron comes with three jets of humidifying steam
and an anti-mineralising self-cleaner that also cooks bagels. In
fact,
buying an iron as a gift really is a man's way of nicely saying
to
his wife: “Please divorce me. NOW.”
Women have also been known to be givers of dud gifts to blokes.
So,
gals, repeat after me: “I will not, now or ever, purchase any
male
any tickets to any Andrew Lloyd Webber production (in particular
Cats) unless he specifically asks for it by
name, conductor and cast
members' middle names.”
I'm tired of grown men sobbing on my shoulder about having
endured
one too many choruses beginning “Mii-iidnight...” while the
footy was
on.
But, while these are common examples, it is more fun to inspect
the
shockers. One colleague has now been so showered in kitsch by
his
family, his immune system has developed a resistance to it. His
Homer Simpson house is replete with a silver plastic unicorn
with a clock
in its belly, and a brown dog cookie jar with a blue sombrero on
its
back.
The piece de resistance came one day when he pulled up in the
family drive to see his brother grimly trying to stuff a
concrete
pelican into his car.
As he guffawed heartily, his brother dourly turned to him and
said:
“Think this is funny eh? Wait.”
He went inside to discover he, too, had a concrete pelican
waiting.
Then there is the case of the certain great aunt who bestows
woollen
knitted bras to the reluctant female relatives in her clan,
causing
all the women around her to turn into writhing human pretzels as
they try to scratch a secret itch.
And I know a bloke who now wears as a badge of honor his gift
from
rellies of a T-shirt depicting amorous VWs seemingly engaged in
‘carma’ sutra.
Well, no time to chat, dear readers. I saw some lovely
limited-edition painted plates with gold trim on them that have my brother's
name
all over them.
And to think he probably doesn't even know he likes fluffy ducks
with Elvis sideburns on his crockery.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr &
The Advertiser, 16 JUN 1998