For sixteen years, my husband Murphy and I had a simple Christmas rule: gifts for the kids and parents, but never for each other. That changed last year. Ten days before Christmas, he surprised me with a massive, beautifully wrapped box. “Something big this year!” he said proudly.
On Christmas Eve, I tore it open—and found a vacuum cleaner. Not a thoughtful gift. A vacuum. For his garage. I was furious, heartbroken, and spent the night stewing on the couch, plotting revenge.
A year later, I had my chance. Murphy’s gift this time? A giant box under the tree. Excited, he tore it open—and discovered an industrial case of premium toilet paper. “Perfect for the home AND your garage!” I declared.
The family erupted in laughter. Murphy went red as he realized I’d turned his practical obsession back on him.
Since then, he hasn’t dared pick out Christmas gifts for me. And just in case? I keep a secret shelf of wrapping paper ready—revenge, after all, is best served with a bow.