My wife won't be reading this column, and I'd appreciate you not telling her what I'm about to confess -- at least not until Christmas morning, when my shameful secret will be revealed.
When it comes to Christmas-shopping for her, I'm hopeless. We're talking utter incompetence.
Let me add a few caveats. I'm not a last-minute Christmas shopper. I had 80% of my shopping done 10 days before Christmas.
And I'm not bad at shopping for other people in my life, especially our son Will, whose material interests are mostly limited to books, records and trains. He's easy.
I'm not a cheap Christmas shopper either -- more on that later.
No, my Christmas shopping failures are limited exclusively to finding tasteful and appropriate gifts for my wife, Rethel.
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One problem is limited options. Rethel's main interests are cooking and clothes, and she owns virtually every kitchen gadget and garment that globalized capitalism has dreamt up. She's especially rich in kitchen gadgets. You know those racks at Steves where they stock the blenders, toasters, juicers and bewilderingly versatile all-in-one food processors? That's what our garage looks like.
So that leaves clothes, right? (Plus one of those new Cameo popcorn bowls with a popcorn card -- that's a no-brainer.)
My first clothing purchase for Rethel was an assortment of Christmas-themed pajamas. I bought them solely because I knew Rethel would look gorgeous in them.
Feel free to write me up for violating Wife Christmas Gift Rule (WCGR) #1: Buy something for her, not for you.
The next things I got were a long, sleek, clingy, brown dress and a flowy black top (or is it a blouse -- sorry, words fail me when it comes to women's clothing) from Punch. I've seen garments similar to this hanging in Rethel's closet, although she rarely seems to wear them. But she must still like them, right?
Note the violation of WCGR #2: Shop based on what she actually wears, not what she owns.
My next purchase was the red thing. It might have caught your eye in the front window of Allison [In Wine Country] downtown -- a red spaghetti-strap blouse (or is it a top?) matched with a sparkly red miniskirt.
Before you convict and sentence me for simultaneous violations of WCGR-1 and WCGR-2, you should know I was warned.
When I stopped by Allison, the store had a sign stating it would be closed for another 15 minutes. As I waited, a friendly reader -- let's call her Elaine de Man -- approached me observing that I looked like one of those patient husbands who mills around on the sidewalk while his wife shops.
"Nope," I told Elaine, puffing up with pride. "I'm Christmas shopping! And I'm going to buy my wife" -- I pointed dramatically at the red thing in the window - "that."
Elaine looked at the red thing and burst into laughter, which wasn't quite the response I'd been going for.
"Oh Jesse, I can't believe you married a woman who dresses like that," Elaine said when her laughter subsided.
"Oh yeah, she loves blingy stuff," I said, but as the words left my mouth my self-assurance went with them.
Wait a minute, I thought. Did I marry a woman who dresses like that?
WCGR-1 came to mind. Was I buying this just so I could admire how great she would look in it? On the heels of that came WCGR-2. Yes, Rethel's closet is full of blingy stuff, but the blingy stuff has a funny way of never leaving the closet. Would she even like this outfit?
We'd had conversations along these lines before when she'd argued the merits of "dressing her age." I say why would a gorgeous woman in her 40s who's blessed with the figure of a 22-year-old swimsuit model want to dress her age?
Being a typical husband, I dismissed my doubts and did exactly what I'd wanted to do in the first place. Reader, I bought it -- without checking the price, which ended up being a lot more than I'd budgeted.
WCGR #4: No matter how sexy and blingy it is, look at the price tag, guys.
By the time you read this, Rethel's presents will be under the tree awaiting her Christmas morning judgment.
Best-case scenario: A gasp of glee as she races to try everything on. Worst-case scenario: A quizzical expression followed by a polite "Hmm, what interesting choices, thank you."
In case my worst fears are confirmed, I've invested in a Woodhouse insurance policy. Hate the clothes? Here, have this Christmasy box of chocolates. Dark, not milk, just like you prefer.
WCGR #5: Sweets wipe away all wrongs, so buy her chocolate. And in case I have to play the chocolate card, I have a ready scapegoat for the ill-advised purchases. I'm disavowing all involvement and throwing Santa under the bus.
Wish me luck, readers. Merry Christmas to you all, especially you clueless but well-meaning husbands.
Jesse Duarte is the editor of the St. Helena Star, sister publication to the Napa Valley Register.
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