It Was So You

Jodie Palmer stared at the hideously wrapped present and knew in her gut that something even more hideous lurked beneath the wrapping. There always was. She couldn’t say she was surprised. People rarely got it right when it came to giving her gifts. Did they really think she was that tacky? She didn’t think she was. Particular, maybe. But not tacky. Jodie didn’t want to be ungrateful—she just felt guilty about people spending money on her for the worst reasons ever.
Literally, the worst.
            This borderline ridiculous gift giving had been going on for as long as Jodie could remember. It all started with that tasteless “someone who loves me went to Florida and all they brought back was this lousy t-shirt” t-shirt. Jodie hated graphic t-shirts with a passion. They repulsed her. It made her wince when she thought about showing off a cheesy slogan or tongue-in-cheek animation across her, at the time, pre-pubescent chest. It just wasn’t her. Although she’d been just seven years old, she knew it was inelegant to sport such a garment. (It should be noted that Jodie didn’t consider rhinestone-studded Bebe tees as graphic. They were fabulous.)
            If she remembered correctly, that ugly as sin t-shirt was the gift that started the whole treacherous thing. Afterwards, it was a string of never-ending poky presents that Jodie almost always donated, hid, or re-gifted. But it was getting exhausting. She was twenty-six now and in almost two decades, not much had changed. There was the bejewelled strawberry purse from her middle school boyfriend, the diamanté tiara her parents gave her for graduation, the fuchsia lingerie-printed kitchen apron she’d received as a housewarming present when she’d moved into her first apartment. She inwardly cringed at the memories.
            At least the gifts weren’t getting worse. They just remained consistently bad.
            On multiple occasions, Jodie had attempted to forgo gifts completely—a “no present policy” that would save her many more years of excruciating benevolence. Instead, she asked people to donate to a charity on her behalf or perhaps, she carefully suggested, if people insisted, a gift card would be easier? Nonsense, her mother had scolded her, that takes all of the fun out of presents! Yeah, Jodie thought, for who?
            Jodie was currently sitting on the overstuffed armchair that punctuated the south-west facing window of her one-bedroom apartment, the dreaded present in hand, scared out of her wits, heart palpitating, and palms sweating. What was it going to be this time? Snoh Aalegra’s angelic voice was streaming from a pair of HomePod Minis, but even that wasn’t enough to quell Jodie’s anxiety. Forget a Situationship, this was a straight up situation. Jodie took a sip of gently bubbling prosecco.
            Today was her birthday. Last week, Jodie had treated herself to a pair of butter-soft, knee-high, cognac leather boots with a toe so pointed, you could kill somebody. And she just might put them to the test if she had to open one more pair of sushi motif socks or “it’s wine o’clock somewhere” glasses or another set of vomit-yellow hand towels that didn’t go with her interior aesthetic whatsoever. (Actually, the towels had come in quite handy when house training her yorkie, Clementine. But that’s about it. Afterwards, they’d promptly found their forever home in the garbage bin and Clementine learned how to go outside.)
            All eyes were on her; she could feel the expectant stares burning into her. Luckily, the men in her family were distractedly discussing the latest sports match; which one, Jodie had no clue, but at least it meant a few less breathless expressions. It would require nerves of steel to get through this. She could feel a pearl of sweat daring to break through the perfectly primed barrier on her forehead. Why had she even bothered with highlighter today?
            “Open it honey,” Aunt Ruth insisted. Of course she insisted. Jodie smiled tightly. Why is it always the ones with the worst gifts who insist on you opening up every present in front of an eager audience? The pressure was too immense; too much to handle. Jodie didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. If it were up to her, she would open the presents in private, after everyone left, with a freshly shaken cosmopolitan to calm her freshly shaken nerves.
            “Does anyone want another cocktail?” she asked, desperate to buy some time.
            “Jodie, sweetheart. No one wants a cocktail. We want to enjoy you opening your gifts! Now let’s get this show on the road,” instructed her mother. Aunt Ruth nodded eagerly in agreement.
            Hesitantly, she stuck a clear-polished fingernail under the corner of the wrapping paper. Even that was ugly. It was emblazoned with a rainbow of balloons and “happy birthday” bubble letters in various primary hues. It looked more suited to a child and Jodie was instantly transported back to the tacky t-shirt. Her stomach flipped. She yanked at the paper, tearing it off in a quick diagonal strip to reveal something worse than she’d ever imagined. Staring up at her was possibly the most revolting gift she’d ever received: a glittering, fuchsia, studded, peep-toe, stiletto. Not for your feet, which would be bad enough, but for wine. A wine bottle holder. This was irrefutable proof that all that glitters certainly isn’t gold.
            This gross generosity had gone too far.
“We all know how much you love your funky high heels! And your sparkling what’s-it-called? That pink stuff?” Aunt Ruth was beaming.
            “Rosé,” Jodie said. She couldn’t bear to break Aunt Ruth’s heart. She wondered how much this troll-sized shoe had cost. She wouldn’t have entertained the idea of bringing it into her home even if it were free. The closest thing to “funky” she liked was Prince and she would never in a million years describe her footwear as such. Her mind went to her pointed boots. They could kill somebody. The only person Jodie wanted to kill right now was herself. She was only kidding, of course, but the thought still momentarily traipsed, however unwelcome, through her panicked mind.
            How could she get rid of it?
            Maybe she could blame it on Clementine. No. That wouldn’t work. The shoe—if you could respectably call it that—probably weighed more than Clementine did. Could she toss it out the window? Also, no. Other than the fact that her windows were equipped with heavy-duty screens, it would be irresponsible to risk hitting an innocent passerby on the sidewalk below. She needed it to break. And not just a break that could easily be fixed or saved by superglue; she needed it to shatter beyond repair.
            That’s it. She could tuck it carefully at the edge of the shelf in the kitchen where she kept the glassware, delicately close the cupboard door, and then the next person who opened it would have a tumbling, smashed, and mangled wine-holding stiletto at their unsuspecting feet. The tiles in the kitchen were sure to break it into a million pieces. Weren’t they?
            Jodie was already having second thoughts.
            Would that work? Would it even crack? It looked sturdy. Would people wonder, what was a wine bottle holder doing in the cupboard? It should be on display! Somewhere where people can see it, admire it. She could clearly hear the voice of her mother bragging, “My daughter has the neatest trinkets! I just never know where she puts them… We’ve given her so many over the years.”
            That’s another thing Jodie hated: trinkets. She wanted nothing whatsoever to do with anything that could be classified as a trinket. Her living space was purposefully done in a minimalist scheme with little to no unnecessary decorations. With the exception of candles, scent diffusers, and photo frames, everything in her home remained absolutely functional. It was there with a purpose. What purpose did trinkets serve besides to clutter up a perfectly sensible living space and cause extra hassle when dusting? And this wine-holding stiletto could definitely be classified as a trinket.
            “Here, try it out,” Jodie’s mother commanded, handing her a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc she had plunked from the fridge.
            Jodie unwillingly stuck the bottle into the sparkling stiletto. A collective “aw” could be heard over the music—although the only “aw” that was going through Jodie’s mind was “awful”—and Aunt Ruth took out her phone to snap a few photos. Oh, no. Jodie didn’t want proof of this eyesore! Especially not proof that it had once been in her home. She could hardly deny it was hers then. She had to do something.
            “Who wants a refill?!”
            Jodie sprang to her feet, simultaneously reaching for the chilled bottle of white wine. In her haste, she didn’t notice that anything was wrong. She was momentarily oblivious to the disaster—or blessing, depending on which way you looked at it—unfurling right in front of her. It wasn’t until she heard the splintering crash that she realized what had happened.
            The glittering, fuchsia, studded, peep-toe, stiletto wine bottle holder was demolished. Well, I’ll toast to that, was Jodie’s immediate thought.
            “Oh, dear!” shrieked Aunt Ruth.
            “Heavens!” squawked her mother.
            “I’ll get the dustpan,” offered Jodie.
            Her mother looked at her in horror. “The dustpan? Jodie, please. Shouldn’t we see if it can be fixed first? You only just got it.”
            “Mom, trust me, it’s beyond repair. Look at it. Such a… shame.” It took all of the strength she had to conceal the glimmer of satisfaction she felt bursting within her.
            “Jodie, I am so sorry this happened. Let me at least buy you a new one,” pleaded Aunt Ruth.
            “No! I mean, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want you to spend another fortune on it. It seems very expensive.” Jodie recoiled just thinking about having a second loathsome stiletto entering her sanctuary. There was no way in hell she’d let that happen.
            “But it was so you,” Aunt Ruth sighed. At this comment, Jodie felt herself involuntarily flinch. Nothing about that hot pink abomination was her at all. Honestly, how could her tastes remain such an enigma to her own flesh and blood? How could they think she’d actually appreciate that gift? Hadn’t anyone even bothered to notice that all of her other wine bottles were either neatly tucked into the fridge door or stacked on her brass bar cart?
            Jodie finished sweeping up the destroyed remains of her worst birthday present to date and made her way to the kitchen. She whispered a heartfelt thank you to the universe as she tipped the dustpan into the trash. The pieces landed with a satisfying clunk. She almost expected a cloud of glitter to rise from the ashes. Thankfully, none did. It was gone, forever. Well, at least it would be on Tuesday when the garbage truck came.
Suddenly, Jodie was feeling a lot more festive. She was in the mood to celebrate. She grabbed a pack of matches from the drawer beside the sink, slipped a knife from the wooden block on the countertop, and made her way back to the living room.
            “So, who wants cake?”

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ

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