My husband Murphy’s Christmas present left me fuming – a vacuum cleaner, wrapped with care, but symbolizing his thoughtlessness. For 16 years, I’d been his partner, not his maid.
Determined to teach him a lesson, I plotted the perfect payback. A year passed, and Christmas arrived again. Our family gathered, curious about Murphy’s gift.
With a flourish, he unwrapped an industrial-sized case of toilet paper. His face transformed from excitement to horror. “TOILET PAPER?!” he stammered.
I smiled sweetly. “High-quality four-ply, perfect for home and workshop use.” Our daughters giggled, Aunt Martha choked on eggnog, and Uncle Bill slapped his knee in laughter.
“Who gives toilet paper for Christmas?” Murphy’s face flushed.
I replied, “Who gives a vacuum cleaner?”
The room erupted in laughter and applause. Murphy fled upstairs, muttering. Eleanor gave me a covert high-five.
Five years later, Murphy still hasn’t mentioned Christmas gifts, and “selfish” vanished from his vocabulary.
I remain prepared, with wrapping paper at the ready, in case he forgets the lesson of the toilet paper revenge.
