It seems we now entered a new stage of giving. Actually, Rick was the first to enter this bastion of insensibility. Several years ago, when he gave me ear wax candles for my birthday. Perhaps they were something he dreamed about for himself—some kind of warped male dream spa come true.
I didn’t even know ear wax candles existed. Even if I had, they would have been on the list of things I hope never to see attached to my body—like varicose veins, warts or blood sucking leeches.
Father's day was coming up and I coveted my friend's deluxe garden wagon with retractable sides that could dump, and carry 1,200 pounds. Our wheelbarrow was rusty, had holes and was awkward to push up hill. The wagon would be the perfect gift. Rick would love it.
The problem was, we were doing a lot of yard work right now. We had 12 yards of bark dust to move. If Rick was going to get any real enjoyment out of the wagon this year, I needed to give it to him early—real early.
“Honey,” I called upstairs one beautiful April day. “I have your Father’s day gift. Can you to come to the garage to open it. It’s in the trunk and it’s too heavy for me to move.”
Moments later, Rick tromped downstairs. “Is this something I have to put together?”
If given a choice between assembling anything or trimming the hairs in his nose with a chainsaw he'd pick tirimming everytime.
“It will be easy. You’re going to love it.”
Rick hefted the package out of the trunk and squinted his eyes to examine the contents. He started to laugh and shake his head. “This is not Happy Father' Day, dear. It's Happy Mother’s Day!” Obviously, I had just leaped over the threshold of insensibility to join him.
Five hours of knuckle breaking, back pounding work later, Rick huffed upstairs. “You know those earwax candles? I’d like to stick them in your ears and light them now.”
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