Before we were married, my wife, Vicky, gave me a water bottle inscribed with the logo of the financial firm where she works. She knows I love water bottles, but this one weighed a million pounds and didn’t fit in my bike’s water bottle cage. Also, did I mention the logo?
I’m not an ingrate, so I said, “Thanks, babe.” Then I put that bottle in the drawer with the others and haven’t used it in the 18 years we’ve been married.
Vicky sucks at giving gifts. I caught on to this early and after a few rough years, I took over. Now, every Chanukah, I fill our kids’ Chanukah boots. I fill hers and mine too. I’m talking about Christmas stockings, of course. Vicky’s Catholic-Venezuelan and I’m Jewish-American, so we call them boots. Every family has their own holiday ritual; this is ours.
The kids are fun to shop for. This year, they’re getting Twizzlers, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, an iPhone charger, Starface pimple patches, and a tiger T-shirt and sloth slippers I got for donating to World Wildlife Fund. Everything is signed, “Love Chanaclause.”
Vicky’s fun to shop for too. She recently became a mad-botanist. Every day, she wakes up before work to tend to her “plant babies.” When she walks the dog, she’s actually scouring the neighborhood for stems she can propagate. Right now, we have 22 pots all over our kitchen sprouting this or that.
Last time we were in the garden section of Home Depot, I noticed Vicky eyeballing a gardening apron. I knew this apron didn’t have enough pockets and loops to satisfy her, so I found an even better one at Terrain.com.
Now, Vicky’s Instagram feed is all gardening, so get this: She showed me a video of a woman harvesting homegrown herbs with these adorable scissors that cut without bruising the vines. If this were me, I’d have clicked through to purchase the scissors that second, but Vicky’s more of a dreamer. She goes to work and forgets. I can’t wait for her to pull those pruners out of her boot.
Just so you know, Vicky’s boot is not all gardening tools. A few weeks ago, we went out to a nice dinner and Vicky ordered a Riviera, a cocktail that came in an elegant martini glass with a sprig of mint. Vicky hardly ever drinks, but she loved it—and she grows mint in our garden!
I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the menu, which listed the drink’s ingredients. And even with Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” filling our ears, Vicky was not on to me. You bet I got her two martini glasses and a shaker.
Here’s the truth: Early on, around the holidays, I tried to give my wife the gift of knowing what to get for me. I gave her plenty of hints: “Hey, check out this Instagram reel. Tennis shorts with pockets!” Or, “I love this magazine. Maybe I should get a subscription.”
My telepathy didn’t translate. I’ll admit: It hurt my feelings. Does she even listen? Does she even know me? Does she care?
But, I’d been looking at the issue all wrong. A few years into our relationship, we were on a road trip when we stopped at an Airbnb in Cocoa Beach, Florida. It had a Ping-Pong table and four bicycles, plus a clawfoot tub. Everything I love. Vicky planned the whole thing. She puts gas in my car. She handles our bills online. Vicky does so much for me.
I came to realize we all have our strengths. I’m good at shopping. Vicky’s good at taxes. So naturally, without discussion, filling the boots became my job.
Now, for Chanukah, Valentine’s Day, and my birthday, I buy my own presents. On my 50th, when it was time for a big one, I got a Specialized 29er, a mountain bike with fat tires for jumping curbs and big wheels for riding fast. I’d been eyeing it for years.
Oh, don’t worry. I wrapped it with ribbon and a bow and added a card that said, “Baby, happy birthday. Love, Vicky.”
The first time I read a card I’d written for myself, from her, out loud, Vicky smiled so big that I knew she was relieved she had one less thing to do.
This year, my boot is filled with two bars of those black-and-red, spice-scented, overpriced soaps they sell at Whole Foods; Bitches Brew organic, whole bean coffee, dark roast; Mentos spearmint gum, in the recyclable paper bottle; regular duty tennis balls for clay courts; one pair of Bombas lightweight ankle socks; and since Vicky gives great massages, an IOU gift certificate for a 50-minute massage. I’m so excited to open my boot!
Like Vicky, I have distinct likes and wants, which you’d think makes shopping for me a breeze, but it’s easy to get the wrong beans and while I’m a little bit hippie, the soap with the patchouli takes it too far. Because of this, after all these years, I suddenly worried that I was the problem. Last night, I asked Vicky if I was hard to get presents for.
“You were impossible,” she said.
“Even when I gave you hints about what I want?” I said.
“Yes, I’ve never met anyone more particular. You’ve returned 12 pairs of tennis shorts.”
“So, are you glad I do the shopping for you now?”
“Absolutely.”
So, it seems like Vicky does catch my hints. She just does what any good partner would do: She doesn’t point out I’m a pain in the butt, she just lets me handle it. Like every couple, we both play our parts, good and bad. This is our marriage ritual.
So tonight, and for the rest of the holidays, I’ll make Vicky a Riviera and then I’ll flip through the Uncommon Goods catalog to see if there’s anything in there I could buy to fill our boots—hers and mine.
Andrea Askowitz is the author of the memoir My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy, co-host of the podcast Writing Class Radio, and founder of the storytelling series All Sides of the Story.
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