I can only blame it on the eternal cosmic connection.
Despite the fact that I have never ever ordered anything from Harry and David, I regularly get a catalog from them. Like clockwise, it shows up on December 1, just in time for holiday gift giving.
I have no clue who Harry or David, except they sell fruit baskets, meats, candies, and the like. But, they apparently know who I am. I could never figure it out until recently. Another mental epiphany.
This has my father's heavenly fingerprints all over it. Because, in the last ten years of his life, he shopped exclusively with this catalog. Not to relatives, but all those other people on the periphery of your life. The mailman. Your doctor. The local bookie. Your friendly neighborhood bartender. I remember one year my house was knee deep in German summer sausages. Because nothing says "Merry Christmas" more than a big hunk of processed meat. Another year, my father ordered nothing but cans of cashew nuts. Thank God nobody on his list suffered from diverticulitis.
I guess this was the healthy alternative to the previous version of ancillary gift giving. When your oil delivery guy routinely received a carton of cigarettes. Because nothing says "Happy Holidays" like a big old black spot on your lung.
I don't have a bartender or a bookie. But, I do have a housekeeper. She takes the Christmas cash. In crisp unmarked bills. That can't be traced since she's not claiming any of it.
I have no idea what she would think if we gave a big basket of pears.
Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich and side salad.
1 comment:
My father got cartons of cigarettes on Christmas from me and my brother. In those days it was a completely normal gift, and Dad smoked every one. He was the classic American father who wanted nothing on Christmas and so never suggested ideas. At least he didn't get hideous sweaters and ties.
Post a Comment