The Importance of Gifts

     It's day two, and I can see that both my narcissistic and material needs are not being met.  One of my two followers is obviously my husband who somewhat defensively explained the reason for believing his breasts were getting bigger, in a comment at the end of my first post.  I don't think he'll be buying me gifts anytime soon.
     I learned something really important about gift giving from my good friend, Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) that I now pass on to you.  During a visit to Florida to see my mother-in-law, Brunhilda, Edward and I gave her a large selection of canned and other goods for her home in Florida so she would be well prepared in case of a hurricane. We thought it was needed and would make her feel more secure.
      Whoa - stop everything - Edward has interrupted to tell me of a harrowing experience he just had at Balducci's.  The espresso machine is not working!
       And now back to my story:  Brunhilda didn't have tons of money, but she certainly had enough to live out her life in the style to which she had become accustomed.  She wasn't scraping her pennies together to buy milk, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, I learned later that she and her aide took all the stuff we bought and returned it to the supermarket for cash.  Yes, you read that right.  She sold our gift for cash.
     I was absolutely furious about this and experiencing hateful, nasty, ugly thoughts about Brunhilda, who has since died.  (May she rest in peace.)  O.k., let me be truly honest.  Brunhilda and I didn't exactly have a lovefest going even before the gift fiasco. 
     Was I surprised when I mentioned this incident to CAF and did not get the response of shock and horror that I was looking for.  He simply pointed out that when you give someone a gift, your control over the gift ends.  It belongs to the receiver who is free to do with it whatever they want, even if you don't like it.   That strong clarification totally dissipated my anger so I was free to focus my hateful, nasty, ugly thoughts on other awful things Brunhilda had done.  Thank you CAF.
     And now some words about CAF.  I can't really remember why we call him that.  I think it has something to do with a rip in his pants and you know the cheeks were a flying, but I'm not sure.  He likes to get rips in his clothes mended rather than throw them out so I once alleged that he was auditioning for a TV show, "The Real Hobos of the Upper East Side." One time, he was getting out of a cab to meet us at a restaurant when I yelled at him, "Who is this hobo?"  O.k., not funny I know.  Anyway, the cab driver who was wearing long white robes that were obviously commonly worn in his native country, emerged just after CAF but just when I said the hobo thing.  I'm sure the driver heard "hobo" as "homo" and thought it was directed at him. 
      I could be in jail for a hate crime rather than worrying about the lack of espresso at Balducci's.  Ain't life great?