So Katarina calls the other day and casually says she needs to stop by with a “little something for Christmas.” I pride myself on being a great gift-giver, so I am super-excited for her to come over because I have something for her, too.
She arrives
and we immediately dive into conversation, the type of conversation that never
ends but just temporarily stops until the next time I am lucky enough to see
her. We talk about everything and
nothing, our words punctuated with bright confetti laughter.
She hands me
a rectangular shaped box, exquisitely wrapped in thick gold paper and finished
off with a green silk ribbon. I hand her
a square box with cartoonish reindeer wrapping paper. There is no bow, as my kids used all my
ribbon to set a trap for the cat two days ago.
“You go
first.”
“No, you.”I begin to tear into the paper and I see beautiful note cards with an ink drawing of a sweet little cottage. Wow, I think, that house looks so familiar. After a few minutes, the worn-out synapses in my brain reach full capacity and I blurt out,
“Katarina! That is MY house!”
That's right. She hired a professional artist to come over
and draw my house and THEN have the drawing made into notecards. My house. Drawn by a professional artist. Who does this for a living. |
Her voice breaks the silence. “Shall I
open mine now?”
I want to
snatch the inferior gift I gave her out of her hand and immediately search
around my house for something worthy to give her instead, like stacks of cash or
perhaps a diamond tiara. It’s too
late. She already has it open.
“Oh, MOV,
how wonderful! It’s a … candle.”
Her face
registers only joy and gratitude, yet I feel compelled
to justify the candle.
“Lemon!”
“Yes!” she
nods.
“It’s from
the high-end kitchen store!” I offer, grasping at anything to make the candle
be better than a candle.
“I know!”
she enthuses appreciatively. “I love the
high-end kitchen store!”
I stare at
the notecards. Of my house. That a professional artist has drawn.
“Katarina, I
have to tell you: that is one of the nicest,
most thoughtful gifts I have ever received.
I feel bad. I should have gotten
you something better …”
Why did I
not get her a new car? A car is a good
gift. She could not top that.
“MOV, don’t
be ridiculous! I love candles, and lemon
is a great flavor.”
“Scent.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I adore lemon! I do.”
She smiles sincerely.
“Oh, okay,
then. Good. I’m glad you like it.” I grin back at her, almost convinced that a generic
candle is as good a gift as cards of my house.
Drawn by a professional artist.
“How did the
artist do this?” I ask.
“Well, he
drove over here to your house and took pictures. Then he drew from the pictures.” She shrugs, as if she is saying, Then I emptied the dishwasher, no big deal.
My mind
flips back to that day at the end of summer when that strange stalker-ish
person was camped out in front of my house with a camera. I had called the police.
I decide not
to tell Katarina about that.
“Katarina, thank
you. I love the cards of my house.”
Maybe now is
not the best time to tell her we are only renting?
MOV