And mainly it only applies to my family, and by family, I mean my parents and brother.
When I ask you what you want for Christmas, I would like some ideas. Not my dad’s ideas of underwear and socks, because I can only wrap up so many packs of boxers every year, before it gets boring. And not my mom’s idea of an $8 magazine subscription. Dear parents, I have a job. I can buy you real gifts, as evident from years in the past, but I just want to get you something you will use and/or like. Not wear to cover your balls, Dad.
And my brother is another story. He occasionally reads here, so I can’t go into detail. But he’s about as helpful as the my broken stapler when it comes to telling me what he wants. I had planned to hook up with a ticket to Vegas for Christmas to come with me in January, but he won’t give me an answer and airfare’s gone up. So I took my own route, and pretty much have him all taken care of. Which is sad, because I just found what I should have gotten him instead. Why, radar guns, of course.
Maybe next year, my little brother, you’ll learn to ask for things and not force me to pick out random things for you.