’Tis Better to Give Than to Receive … Another FKN Candle
I believe it was Jesus who first said, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” It was probably because he was tired of getting random candles for his birthday every frickin’ year. After the hundredth box with that Yankee Candle logo, he was like, “I’m begging you, NO MORE CANDLES. I appreciate the gesture but I’m good. I don’t even like frankincense. P.S. I’m the son of God. You’d think you’d spring for Voluspa.”1
I’m just like Jesus. Well, only in the sense that I don’t want your fucking candle. Don’t get me wrong, I love gifts … that I fancy. I don’t fancy candles. And it’s not even like I don’t like candles. I’m just scared of burning my condo down. And I have very particular tastes when it comes to scents. Nine times out of ten the candle you choose for me will be a swing and a miss. And, as my friend Shameka once told me, I’m not very good at hiding my feelings. So chances are you will see my disappointment in your “thoughtful” gift, your feelings will get hurt, and then I’ll feel guilty for hurting your feelings. Then I’ll get mad that I hurt your feelings when I know you just randomly grabbed a candle out of a discount bin at Bed Bath & Beyond. My close friends know this about me. I’m tough to please, but I also don’t expect or require gifts2 from anyone so it works out perfectly.
I swear I’m not the Grinch, I’m just being honest. I’m speaking my truth, people. And the truth is, I LOVE LOVE LOVE Christmas, maybe more than almost anything in the universe. But I much prefer GIVING to receiving.
To understand why, let’s go back, deeeeeep into my childhood …
Once upon a time, young Marietta couldn’t wait to get loads of presents on her favorite holiday of the year. One weekend soon after Thanksgiving ended, Marietta would help her mother replace allll the harvest- and pilgrim-themed household accents with even more Christmas sundry. First, she’d place a giant fake wreath on the front door, then help put up the family’s fake tree, which her mom got at a steep discount the day after Christmas a few years before. It was the floor model at Jamesway and had beautiful white branches and blue ornaments. Come to think of it, it looked more like a tall Hanukkah bush, yet another reason why Marietta’s always identified with and appreciated her Jewish friends and neighbors. Oh, how she loved that tree. It matched their living room perfectly, which was very important to a style maven like the Sirleaf matriarch. Fake greenery had always been a part of the family’s holiday festivities. This is all that Marietta knew. She had no idea that people actually put real trees in their homes until she visited a friend’s home during Christmas break. She’d seen a production of The Nutcracker ballet on TV with mention of a real tree but thought it was a construct of the arts. But a real tree in a real home? It was very confusing and upsetting to her. Who would want the inside of their home to smell like the outside? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of having a house with walls and windows to shut out the outside smells?3 And the idea of all those needles getting stuck in the carpet was enough to send Marietta into an OCD-induced panic attack.
After trimming the tree with blue-and-white lights and matching ornaments, Marietta helped her mom cover every inch of their house in festive decor as her father’s Christmas albums wafted through the house. Some might say it was all a bit much but it was associated with such happiness for her that it didn’t matter! A black animatronic Santa stood guard in the foyer with his boo, Mrs. Claus, greeting guests with a robotic dance while judging whether they’d been naughty or nice. Quaint miniature villages and train sets sprinkled with fake snow were displayed on the floor. Harvest-themed towels and dishes were replaced with green-and-red Yuletide towels and dishes. Every tabletop was covered with reindeer figurines and every doorway sprouted a sprig of fake mistletoe. Marietta didn’t even get mad when her mother would corner her father under one and smooch him down in a way that embarrasses children whose parents still show each other affection.
No, Marietta didn’t mind at all. What did ruffle her feathers was when her mother asked her to light all the electric freakin’ candles in every window of their two-story, seven-bedroom house because Marietta was lazy, even way back then. But she sucked it up and did it, because she knew if she was a helpful little elf she’d be handsomely rewarded on Christmas morning with clothes, underwear, games, electronics, and usually a piece of jewelry. It might have all come from Kmart, but Marietta didn’t know that and didn’t care. All she knew was that she’d be showered with gifts from her loving parents.
On Christmas morning, her mother would ask, “Who gon’ play Santa and pass out de gifts?”
We don’t care! Marietta silently screamed in her head. Just give us our stuff!
Unwrapping the gifts was a magical sensory overload. Imperfectly wrapped presents were torn to shreds with glee, unleashing a bounty of new plastic smells! Mmmmm! Ahhhhh! Every year she’d receive a brand-new Simon game and her father would give her and her mother a special piece of jewelry. Marietta loved and cherished her presents and especially looked forward to that new sparkly treasure she was assured to receive.
So imagine Marietta’s shock when one year—the year her family moved into their “new” house in the suburbs—the only gifts she received on Christmas morning were a beige pair of corduroys and a Cabbage Patch doll. A baby doll? Marietta was in ninth grade. Her parents were legitimately tapped out from the move and barely had two nickels to rub together. It was a sobering Christmas at the Sirleafs’. Marietta was so heartbroken but knew her mother would be mortified if she knew how disappointed she was. So she held back her tears as best she could but when she returned to her room, the first room she had had to herself since she was four years old, she cried like a baby … an ungrateful, selfish baby.
Ugh. Okay, I’m done with the third person now.…
This not-so-very-merry moment was life-changing for me. My mother kept warning me, “We just bought this house. Christmas is going to be light this year.” But I had no idea how light she meant. I don’t know that I even knew what “light” meant. I thought perhaps only ten gifts each instead of fifteen. I just remember being so devastated, but more than that, it hit me for the first time that some families were even worse off than us. A few years later, the present giving would normalize again at my house, but I got it loud and clear that there were kids out there who got less or nothing—they might be thrilled with a beige pair of pants and OVERJOYED by the sight of a new doll that I’d dismissed as not good enough. I wasn’t proud of my behavior, and it wasn’t the first time.
Once, my dad, who consistently worked his ass off and spent his hard-earned money on things for me and my family, got matching name rings for me and my mom. Chunky solid rings where our names were written out in script, “Deborah” on hers and my nickname, “Neak,” on mine. I was apparently too good for this gift and frowned at what I thought was a “tacky” offering. Debbie wasn’t having it and said, “If you don’t like it then you won’t have it,” and took it out of my hand. The funny thing is, now I think it’s cool in a kitschy kind of way. No matter, Deb has kept a death grip on the ridiculed gift and sometimes she wears both to taunt me. “You didn’t like it so you don’t get it.”
The lesson I learned that Christmas was never look a gift horse in the mouth cuz they will keep that gift and it will haunt you. I think my ungratefulness is what led my family to what I called the “sterilization” of our Christmases after that. It wasn’t long after I turned my nose up at the name ring that my family turned to giving gift cards. I mean, gift cards are cool but hardly personal. But the year our Christmas hit rock-bottom was when we all exchanged envelopes of cash. If that doesn’t say “I give up” I don’t know what does. I blame myself for that. My petulant attitude had brought us to this and I’ve regretted it ever since.
But I learned something about myself the Year of the Cabbage Patch, which was getting THINGS wasn’t what was important. Don’t get it twisted, I like things. There are even some things that I love (see: ADDICTION chapter). I just don’t need people to give me things to be happy. Offer me your time and companionship. Let’s spend time laughing and sharing and breaking bread. That’s what makes me happy when it comes to the people in my life. I can buy my own things. Bottom line, don’t feel pressure to get me a thing. I don’t want you to waste your money or kill yourself to go to Walmart to buy me a sweater that doesn’t fit. My reaction is gonna make you feel bad, which will in turn make me feel bad, and now you’ve spent money to make us both feel like shit. I call this “gift onset guilt.” I mean, I’ll try my best to fake it, but I’m not Meryl Streep. Yet. So to save us both the awkwardness, just don’t buy me anything. I promise it’s okay. My cabinets are already chock full o’ crap.
I much prefer to play Santa; in that case it’s perfectly fine to love the giver if it’s ME. Because I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I consider myself a good gift giver.4 Ever since that sad Sirleaf Christmas, from that day forward I’ve made it my goal in life to make sure everyone I know has the best Christmas ever. I truly get more joy giving something that people really want without them having to tell me what it is. Even better, I love the idea of getting something someone LOVES. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want my friends or loved ones to experience gift onset guilt. That means if my mom wants a Kindle to download the Bible App, I’m getting her that Kindle, even though I know there’s a 99 percent chance it will sit unused because no one’s able to teach her how to work it, like the new Keurig I gave her this year.
I like to play Santa with my sisters-by-choice, too. I’ve been throwing a Christmas party for my close gal pals for the past fifteen years in LA. In the early days, I’d do a potluck Christmas party in my studio apartment with eight friends where the only decorations were multicolored lights strung along the ceiling of the bedroom/living room/TV room. Fifteen years later the group has grown to about twelve and I have a considerable amount of holiday décor, which includes a mini fake tree, personalized stockings, a mirrored tree for the credenza and, the pièce de résistance, a silver reindeer candelabra. The gift giving was an essential component of my party from the get-go. I’m a huge fan of giving a gift bag.5 Along with the gift bag, I started including a Secret Santa gift, graduated to white elephant, then added additional gift-bag prizes for winning games such as Catch Phrase, Taboo, and Heads Up! Each year I try to do something new that will surprise my friends. Stuffed bears were in regular rotation for a while. I love to personalize gifts, so one year I gave everyone slippers with their names in colored glitter glue. That took more time than I like, so the following year I did personalized pajamas where I had the year and nickname of each friend stitched onto the tops and down the right leg. The pajamas were such a hit, the fête is now officially a pajama party. I love to personalize stuff and people appreciate it.
One year, I threw a makeup-themed party and I had everyone tell me the one product they couldn’t live without. Then I bought enough so that everyone got one of each of the favorite products (and I threw in a Plexiglas cosmetics organizer cuz perf, duh). Then, because I love a theme, I asked my friend Kimberly Bailey, who owns The Butter End Cakery, to make cookies in the shape of lipsticks, brushes, compacts, nail polish, and hairdryers. And each friend got a personalized cake with the logo of the product they couldn’t live without. THAT WAS MY FAVE FAVOR! I just got so excited for my next holiday party!
Okay, so I’m a little out of control, but I don’t care. Each year I can’t wait to outdo myself. But what I don’t like is when I go to all this trouble and somebody doesn’t show up. It. Makes. Me. Crazy! And occasionally the next day I’ll find one of the white elephant gifts casually left in the lobby of my building. Hardy har har. (You know who you are and I will get you back!)
It’s funny. One of my favorite things to do was send out holiday cards. I stopped a few years ago because I didn’t “have time.” I didn’t have time because I sent out over two hundred cards and felt obligated to write a personal message in each. I always thought that the generic
Merry Xmas
—Us!
wasn’t exactly “thoughtful” so I committed to making mine personal. Well, it turns out I didn’t have the time to sit on my living room floor and write out a personal note followed by “Murry Chrimuh” two hundred times. It was ambitious and proved to be ill-planned because once I did stop, I can’t tell you how many people messaged me saying, “I never got your Christmas card!” People live for that shit. But I do NOT anymore, so I just stopped cold turkey. I guess for Christmas it’s more like cold ham. But I had to stop for my own sanity. That’s what I get for being a holiday-message snob.
I will, however, always have time to plan my annual Christmas party, even though it is a major ordeal, because it’s my favorite event of the year. I hate the crowds at the mall but I will suffer through them to make sure all my party gift bags are ready in a timely fashion.6 I also need time to wrap my gifts properly without feeling rushed. I’m one of those weirdos who actually looks forward to wrapping dozens of gifts because a symmetrically wrapped package gives me an unnatural satisfaction.
That’s the kind of shit I live for during Christmas season. Perfection. Because my friends know me and are all too familiar with my very particular and hard-to-pin-down tastes, they have figured out the best solution to this conundrum of bringing me something without actually bringing me something.
They bring me LIQUOR. Lots of it. They know they can’t go wrong with Cîroc Peach, Three Olives Purple (which oddly tastes more like grape than Three Olives Grape) and Disaronno.
I guess all I want for Christmas … is booze. It always fits and never goes outta style.