’Tis the month after Christmas, and all through the Earth, no gift you got’s great — it’s like nothing’s worth.
This thing’s too short.
Wrong color.
Wrong size.
Doesn’t fit.
I don’t want it.
I already have one.
You bring it back. But the shop won’t take it back. You need the receipt. You waited too long.
Not our policy. No returns.
State name of purchaser who bought you this item.
Also maybe the seller had only a holiday-time pop-up place. He’s now out of business, off snorkeling, and the joint’s closed.
The stores are busy. Salespeople are cranky. Tired. Overworked. Underappreciated. And need time off to get rid of their own unwanted presents.
And there’s always a line at the “return” counter.
Plus an attitude: “Miss, this sweater looks like it’s been worn” . . .
“Ma’m, you waited two weeks. We accept purchases back only for 10 days” . . .
“Sir, no cash, just merchandise, in exchange.” . . .
“Please, this is not even in our own box with our own in-house wrapping.”
Also: “Yes, you’re a valued customer, but there will be a slight charge for restocking”. . .
Or: “Sorry, this was a sale item”. . .
“This was strictly a one-time year-end special.” . . .
“Only comes in a one-size-fits-all.”. . .
“If purchased on someone’s charge account, it must be credited to that charge account”. . .
Or: “Lady, the jacket’s polyester. It does not come in cashmere . . . Or in Triple-X size.”
At the counter: “We need your driver’s license as proof of ID.”
At the department: “We only have it in blue. No green.”
At the cash register: “Those are all sold out. You can’t exchange it for another.”
And then, do what with that accumulation of holiday trash — bows, cards, wrappings, tissue, labels, boxes, figurines?
A one-time VIP ironed her gifts’ decorations. Dumping the presents, she kept the ribbons, ironed the creased wrapping paper and stashed it under her bed. She’s gone now, and unless she took the stuff with her it’s probably still in use — secondhand gold Christmas paper handed down to her heirs.
The holiday gifts of today are the garage sales of tomorrow. Recycle. That’s the solution. Only there’s a limit to how many boxes of stale cookies or bottles of domestic champagne with the hand-painted label “From the House of Schwartz” you can palm off.
Recycling didn’t always work for me.
Years back, my friend was a TV lady named Virginia Graham, whose all-female afternoon chat show “Girl Talk” predated “The View.” One season Virginia gave me a handpainted brooch.
A porcelain face. Lips ruby red. Eyelashes, thick black. Earrings, glass chips. Pretty. But junky.
I stuck it away, forgot about it.
Three years later, cleaning that shelf, I rediscover the brooch. I think, “Great present.” I rewrap it — and re-give it. To Virginia!
And what to do with the Yuletide cards?
Like those with the handwritten illegible signature: “From Vggywdyzky.” Or those posing with the cat’s paw print and the legend: “Happy New Year from Stanislaus and Fluffy.” Or ones with the sender’s entire family picture — none of whom you recognize.
My favorite is the enclosed typed letter the length of “War and Peace” detailing what the sender, his grandparents, in-laws and bailiff did the whole preceding year.
Who knows these creatures?
Who cares?
Who’s got time to read this stuff?
If you cared, you’d have seen them over the year and know it personally.
You haven’t seen them, don’t know it personally and absolutely don’t give a rat’s ass.
People save tinsel, dented Christmas ornaments, even those tiny plastic Santas, whose attachment wire hook’s long since disappeared. They repackage small fake trees to reuse the following year. The star on top gets dusted and laid away.
Left this week are only the real fir tree pine needles embedded in your carpet.
Truth is, St. Nick had a great idea. Visit folks only once a year, and you’re always welcome. Listen, any guy who drops into my house for just one night and doesn’t look to eat, drink or stay over could be my friend for life.
I’m just back from China, where things are different. There, Santa tells you what you’re getting.