Datebook: Monday, December 18th ~ 2006

With only a week left until the big day I can see my husband start to get a little more wide-eyed each day.

He is not very subtle, nor could he be an investigator in any city, even a small one like CSI-Palmetto. Still, he tries to be clever by observing my lag time while looking at catalogs or display windows.

I have to admit I toy with him a bit, looking at the BMW 735 new car sales section of the newspaper or the French Bulldog puppy ads, sometimes emitting a deep sigh just for the sheer drama of it all.

This morning he tried a new ploy by asking, seemingly out of the blue, “What’s that brand of bath salts that you like so much, I really like the smell?”

Ah, Inspector Clouseau.

Trying to be helpful I inform him it is a hit or miss bottle that randomly appears at Marshalls or TJ Maxx. I almost take pity on him when I see him inspecting the bottoms of my two-year old slippers for wear.

Almost. But not quite. And here is the reason.

There is a bottle of Joy sitting at my dressing table with a hint of perfume lingering in the glass container.

I have a library/office where my favorite authors are lovingly displayed.

And I have a collection of Longaberger baskets, which even for the sake of a Mombo piece I refuse to count. To count them might make it seem, well, excessive, when in reality they are merely woven containers of quality craftsmanship. But for the sake of argument, let’s just say I have about 100.

See, right away, I heard those gasps. You need to realize that when you consider tissue boxes, trashcans, and Easter baskets, it is not a wicker nightmare at my house. Really. I mean in the kitchen alone four of them are canisters and one is a cookie jar (which is now discontinued). And quite a few are miniatures, which are really just display versions of the larger creations. Trinkets really.

So, it seems to me that anyone, even a stranger, could walk into my house and realize a few things that would be squeal producing presents to me.

But the one person who is supposed to be my soul mate, the other half to make my whole, struggles each year to “think” of something to buy for me.

To make matters worse, I buy what I think are special gifts for those friends and relatives that are truly dear to my heart.

That’s right, I buy them Longaberger. I typically start ordering in July and amass a small collection of woven wonders, with their protectors and gaily colored liners. I line them up in the living room, taking in the sent of fresh wood in warm brown that works like a magic elixir on the soul.

But alas, like raising a litter of puppies to eight weeks, the day comes when they must depart to their new owners. Today I delivered the first batch to my daughter to be disseminated to a coach, another skating family, and a close friend.

“Make sure you read the tags carefully because each one has been selected for just the right décor to match. And make sure you hold the bottom of the gift bag so it doesn’t rip by the handles.”

She gave me that look last seen more than a year ago, when I took what I thought was her “last” first day of school pictures—as it turned out I happened to be there for her first day of college orientation so I got another first or last, or whatever it was—mooting the whole other photo idea.

I try to explain to her that this is a complicated issue. We are giving a wine basket to a coach who is, sorry to say this but it is true, a basket virgin. I mean, he isn’t going to know a Longaberger basket from a Joanne Fabric basket unless she somehow hints to him that the basket is more valuable than the wine inside.

(And these are valuable, true collector items, not like that Beanie Baby fiasco of ten years ago.)

“Maybe I’ll just tell him to keep it in his safe deposit box until we can get a display case made for his birthday.”

“Oh, easy for you to mock me, little one, but what if it was something you cared about? What if you had to give away your shoe or purse collection to someone who thought Michael Kors was just a misspelled relative of those who run the beer company in Colorado.”

Her pallor told me I made my point.

Anyway, tomorrow I will leave a clipping I took from the travel section in the Sunday paper out for my husband to discover. It is for a romantic ten day trip from Paris to Rome. We won’t be able to go, of course, because it is in the height of skating season, but the thought will be nice.

I will leave it tucked under my Longaberger recipe box (retired-with medley striped liner) for him to find.

I hope he wipes his hands after making the coffee…..

Mombo.