Choosing My Five-Year Work Anniversary Gift
“What’s this?” My wife leaned in and peered over my shoulder at the computer screen.
“Oh, I got this email today congratulating me on five years at Techlicious.”
“That must be some kind of record for you, right?”
It was the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. I ignored the implication. “I get to choose an anniversary gift.” I pointed to the screen containing my choices.
“Wow, you’ve worked there for five years and all you get is a plastic water bottle? You must have done a bang-up job for them.” She patted me on the shoulder and stifled a laugh.
The sarcasm nipped at my self-esteem but caused no lasting injury.
“Not just a water bottle. I can choose anything on this page.”
She pulled up a chair. “Let’s see what we have here. Um hmm. Um hmm. What do you get after ten years?”
“Maybe a ceramic mug. Right now, this is what I can choose from.” I regretted waiting until I got home to view my choices. Coming to terms with the fact that five years of my life boiled down to nothing more than a cheap trinket would have gone better in private. I didn’t want to cry in front of my wife.
“Are those earrings?”
It seemed a little presumptuous of her to look for something she’d like when it was supposed to be my gift. “Would you wear those?”
She flipped her hair for effect. “These old things?” She adopted a fake southern accent. “Why, they’re a commemoration of my husband’s five-year work anniversary.”
“So, that’s a no?”
“That’s a no. It’s your gift. Choose something you like.”
I scrolled through a desert of stress balls, day planners, calendars, pens, and keychains.
“Maybe it’s a test, and they grade you on the choice,” she said.
“Then I’m not choosing anything.” I leaned back in my chair and reached to close the laptop.
She caught my hand. “You have to, otherwise you’ll appear ungrateful.”
“How about a coffee maker?” I asked.
“We have one.”
“It’s dirty.”
“Clean it.”
She always had an answer for everything. “Or get a new one,” I said.
“Clean it. Just run some bleach and vinegar through it.”
“That would kill us.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” She elbowed me and continued to view the choices.
Did she really not know this? “You can’t mix bleach and vinegar.”
“You’re thinking of oil and vinegar. They don’t mix.” She waved her hand at me like she was shooing away a pesky fly.
“No, bleach and vinegar gives off toxic fumes. It would literally kill us.”
“That can’t be true.” She scrolled to the next page of gifts. “I’m sure people mix those all the time. ‘It will make my floor super clean.’”
“They’d only do it once.”
“Those are common household items. Mixing them can’t kill you,” she insisted.
“Mixing common household items can kill you.”
“Name another example.”
“A piano and a frayed rope.”
“Right, I’ve seen that on TV. How about a rice maker?”
She pivoted so quickly I couldn’t even enjoy my victory lap. I rarely won an argument. “Is that all it makes? Rice? Seems like a waste.”
“It makes perfect rice. You know how hard it is to make perfect rice.”
“Easy. Just throw the bag in the microwave.”
“That’s not real rice.”
“Of course it’s real rice.”
“Not from scratch.”
“Thank god we live in a world with microwave rice. What about this set of screwdrivers?”
“Don’t you have screwdrivers?”
“Yeah, but this is a set. I’m just trying to find something I’d actually use.”
“So you can show them off to your friends?” She paused to consult the description. “‘Can I borrow a screwdriver?’ ‘Sure. I have a set of high-quality screwdrivers with alloy shafts and non-slip grips arranged from small to large, from flathead to phillips. What size do you need?’ ‘Wow, look at that beautiful set of high-quality screwdrivers with alloy shafts and non-slip grips arranged from small to large, from flathead to phillips. You must be really talented and handy and cool.’”
Her parody of manspeak was demeaning, but it struck home. Every time I tried to tighten a screw, I had a 50/50 chance of turning it the wrong way. The deep voice she used was sexy until I imagined my friend Doug saying her words.
“Okay, ixnay on the etsay,” I said.
“Look at these wine stoppers.”
“Seriously? When have you ever not finished a bottle of wine?”
“That’s a very good point. Look, a Christmas tree.”
“Pre-lit.”
“How big do you suppose that is?” She clicked on it to bring up more information.
“I don’t know. There’s no frame of reference. The description leaves off that very important detail. It might be three inches tall.”
“That would be cute on your desk.”
“How about that garden gnome?” I asked.
“Same question. How big?”
“This one is probably six feet tall. Our HOA would have a fit.”
“It would serve them right for not allowing us to plant a tree out front.”
Our yard looked barren without a tree. I went back and forth with the HOA for months before finally admitting defeat. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of a six-foot gnome guarding our house.
“I could picture that umbrella hanging on your coat rack,” she said.
“Which one are you picturing, the one with lemon slices, oranges, or watermelons?”
“One of each.”
“I can only choose one gift, and there it is.” I jabbed my finger at the screen.
“Which one?”
“The picture frame with the built-in clock. I’d keep your picture in it and count down the minutes until I could see you in person.”
“Awww. That will make the next five years fly by.”
