I dislike holiday shopping, but that’s mainly because I’m never allowed to buy all the gag gifts and crap that I’d rather give people. Instead, everyone hands off a wish list and I’m shunned if I stray from it.
I don’t want to buy you rechargeable batteries, damnit! That’s no fun! Why would you go out and ruin the whole joy of gift giving – which is the surprise! It’s seeing someone’s face go aglow when they unwrap it and find something they didn’t expect! It’s proving to them that you’ve paid enough attention to know a gift they’d like without them telling you! It’s adding something that maybe, perhaps, they don’t need – but every time they see it they’ll think of how they got it.
So, screw your stapler or your magazine subscription or your pragmatic bologna. Gift-giving isn’t supposed to be a chore, where I do your errands and buy you productivity porn. It’s supposed to be a joy, and, shoot, if I want to give you pasta shaped like boobs or a remote control with giant buttons, I will! If I want to get you a card that’s clearly not intended for you (I know girlfriends aren’t the Best Grandpa Ever, you don’t need to scowl like that!), I will damnit!
And if I want to use your wish list as toilet paper and nothing more, well, I damn well will, damnit.
Wish lists. F ’em.