881. You Go First, No You

We all have a friend like Katarina:  the one friend who you can truly be yourself around, the one person you can tell anything and she won't judge you, the one friend who makes you giggle for no reason.  I have known Katarina for about four years, and I am kicking myself that I did not meet her decades ago.  Where has she been hiding?     

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. 

I am flabbergasted at her creativity and generosity.  I am completely speechless. 

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. 

“Soy-based!  No chemicals!”

“Fabulous!” she agrees.     

“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

777. Queen Virgo Owns 12 Journals

I’m a writer.  This makes it super-duper easy for people to buy me gifts:  they just get me something writer-ish.  Mostly they get me pens or journals.  They never give me erasers.  Erasers would be very insulting.

My brother got me a gorgeous red leather journal from Paris recently.  (I believe the French people call them “zhur-nals.”) 

What makes this even more impressive was that besides it not even being my birthday or a national holiday, he actually went to Paris and bought it (not the sole purpose of the trip, I hope, but a lovely gesture nonetheless).  Every day, I look at that journal and promise to write something profound in it.  Every day, I break my promise.  And the next every day, I remake the promise. 

My high-school boyfriend got me a Waterman pen when I graduated.  A Waterman pen says you will write something serious, something real.  A Waterman pen practically wants to get married to a red leather zhur-nal from Paris. 



My step-mother sends me lovely journals from the high-end stationery store, Papyrus.  I think she does not realize we have Papyrus here in Crazy Town mall, about a 5 minute drive from my house.  She thinks the Papyrus near her in Denver is the only one. 



My sister once gave me a tape-recorder (“In case you can’t get to a pen, or in case the idea is too fast”).  Yeah, ‘cause my ideas are like Nascar racers, they leave tire tracks on your feet. 

Queen Virgo eyes the lovely stack of (unopened) journals, pristine in their originalness.

 

She kisses the Waterman pen, and sets it (still full of ink) next to its lovely twin (a gift from the college boyfriend). 


And right then, she has a magnificent idea for a blog.  She reaches for her trusty "Special Deluxe" pen …

… and then she grabs the one type of paper she uses to write down 100% of her ideas:  

But she will never throw away the journals.       

MOV