Anonymous Revealed

The Faun and I have a few dreadful
secrets in common:

not that I'm in service to the White Witch
or anything too obviously as disagreeable as that,

but I'm simply not the Squirrel all of you
supposed me to be.

It's true.

I've stored practically no parcels or packages for
Christmas.

When it comes to gift giving, I have absolutely
no Mojo at all. Zip on ideas.

See, I panic. I think, "Oh. How nice. A mat
in the shape of pretzel for my MIL; she loves
the chocolate kind." After years
of seeing THAT LOOK on friends' and families'
kind, holiday faces after they open my gift . . .
well, I simply can't bare another round of it.

How much spiked eggnog can a Squirrel's BMI tolerate?
Swig.

THAT LOOK, you ask? Well, it's hard to describe.
The first few couple years of adulthood beheld
many of merry cheers with soft candle light in the background.
A laugh. A toast. And on with the festivities.

But then, a change in tempo. A look of puzzlement.
A forced grin, cocked head,
followed by a quick shuffle of tissue paper.
"Anyone want more cheese from the kitchen?"

Each year the gift-giving ceremony feels,
to my way of feeling, more contrived, more strained.
Is it my imagination, or did she
leave my gift until last, lock her jaw when opening it?
Knock over the glass to distract herself
from facing the gold-ribboned contents? (Who
doesn't love the smell of gasoline in a wax candle?
Wrapped in wool socks?)
She mentioned the aroma once . . .

Me? I continue to receive dazzling gifts--
hand-etched wine glasses and tickets to the theater,
baubbles of stained glass and pieces of gems--
fully printed blogs of a year's work--

but what do I give? Gifts that make people cringe
and lie through their clinched teeth (swear
to my MIL in the hallway where they think I can't hear).

Next year: no more original gifts.
I'm asking for lists and sticking strictly to them.
This year? Well, I'm never alone on Christmas Eve,
shopping in shops full of strange men.