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clear and presents danger
you only get what you gift
by mike julianelle

There are a lot of things at which my wife excels, and even some at which she outperforms even me. Like cleaning. And cooking. Being barefoot, definitely, as well as just generally hanging out in the kitchen. Also, while nobody’s gotten pregnant yet, I strongly suspect she’ll whip my ass (not literally) in that category too. Coincidentally, she’s also excellent at literally whipping my ass.

Like most women, she basically runs things when it comes to certain...shall we say, womanly duties. I don’t know if it’s innate or learned or what, but if they ever have a "What Women Are Good At" Olympics, she’d at least beat every single man who entered, including Martha Stewart. She’s just that...female.

None of this bothers me. I like a woman who is studied in the ways of her gender. Besides, a lot of her expertise in these categories proves beneficial for me, especially the whipping.

But one of her skills is a double-edged sword.

My wife is the world’s best gift giver. If there’s a gift-giving situation she is going to dominate the hell out of it, I promise you. She’ll get you tickets to a Dolphins game and arrange for a limo packed with your closest friends, complete with a designated driver (thanks Josiah!), to take you. She’ll feign yet another trip to the farmer's market only to ambush you with a brand new HDTV just in time for opening weekend of the NFL. She’ll even buy that schoolgirl outfit you saw Eliza Dushku wearing on her new show and then kidnap the TV star, drug her up real good and let you have your way with her while she watches. It’s incredible.

Obviously her gift-giving prowess is a real boon around my birthday and Christmas. The problem is, every time it approaches a wife-centric holiday - and there are a lot - I can't sleep. I'm racked with nerves. On her birthday and our anniversary and Christmas and Valentine's Day and random husband-tax days (you know, those "show me you don't take me for granted by occasionally buying me something expensive" days), her exceptional gift-giving ability is nothing short of a stress factory. I break out in hives. I go into full-on panic mode.

I never know what to get her.

I once got her a legendary gift, at the start of our relationship. Of course, now every time I choke, my wife uses that one gift as evidence that I used to try harder and listen more and something something something, blah blah blah. The fact is I didn't listen at all! I never do! That gift idea was spoon-fed to me and I delivered on it. Any fool would have done the same thing. Besides, she spends so much time talking about what she wants, I can't tell the difference between her wish list and the grocery list. Everything blurs together! And then when I ask her what she wants, she gets upset that I don't know her well enough to figure something out. Women be trippin'!

The problem isn't my effort or attention, it's her expectations, and those are elevated into the stratosphere by the gifts she gives me.

Let's be honest, most women are pretty good at buying things for their loved ones, but it's all part of their agenda. Every gift they give is recorded in the logbook, to be used as leverage when they drop hints about that Louis Vuitton bag they want for Christmas. After all, she got you an HDTV, it's time to pony up, never mind the fact that she watches your HDTV and won't even think about letting you take her Speedy bag to the gym. Double standards abound!

So you know what? Screw that! She wants to buy me expensive stuff, more power to her. But she'd better not expect me to follow suit just to even the ledger. I'll return that damn TV right now! Then where will you be when you want to get a better look at Bradley Cooper's dimples when Wedding Crashers comes on?

It's all a racket and I'm not gonna fall for it. You have 500 bags already, you won't be getting a new one on my dime! From now on, you're lucky if you get a new pair of potholders to replace the holey ones you keep burning your hands on when you pull my dinner out of the oven.

By the way, the chicken was dry!



Let's get real here. You don't want to know about me. You want to know about "me".

more about mike julianelle


crime doesn't pay
but neither does anything else, so sign me up!
by mike julianelle
topic: humor
published: 1.17.05

the worry-free guide to impending fatherhood
just relax a little, asshole
by mike julianelle
topic: humor
published: 1.6.12


rob julianelle
11.6.09 @ 10:09a

This is all funny cuz it's true.

(enjoy the couch tonite)

sandra thompson
11.7.09 @ 8:20a

Uh oh!

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