Have you heard the one about...

I can't tell a joke worth beans. I love a good joke, but half the fun of hearing one is passing it on. I can't do that. I mean, I can pass it on but when I'm done, it's not a joke anymore. Sigh.

I am a very funny person, really, in a conversational, quick retort, punny, smart ass sort of way. I make people laugh all the time. Just not when I am telling jokes. Sigh again.

So I will tell you a couple of stories instead.

These two involve Christmas. I know it's only August, but, God as my witness, CRACKER BARREL already has Christmas stuff for sale. (They have Halloween and Thanksgiving stuff as well. People, we're talking early AUGUST here. It isn't even autumn yet! I despise the blantant cynical merchandising that is forcing the holidays on us earlier and earlier every year). But I digress. I feel comfortable telling these stories because they're humorous and I'm not selling anything.

Let us now travel back, back, back in time to 1983. A whole century ago. (I'm not wrong about that. 1983 was in the 20th century, 2009 is in the 21st...). My darling husband has been disappointing me gift-wise for about 15 years. Every year at the appropriate time, I give him a list of things I want for my birthday, or for Mother's Day, or for our anniversary, or for Christmas. Every year he apparently shreds the list and buys me something practical. Like a toaster. (I asked for Obsession perfume for every occasion for FIVE STRAIGHT YEARS before I finally just broke down and bought it for myself. Think about that. I asked for it at least 20 times and he didn't take the hint).

So, my birthday rolls around in September, like it does on an annoyingly annual basis, and once again, the Clueless Gifter strikes. I open my present and nod resignedly. Yep. It's a Dust Buster. I am beyond disappointed this time. I am pissed. "I don't know why it is, but you never give me what I want. You only give me what you want me to have," I snarl. "Do me a favor. Forget about getting me anything for Christmas this year. Don't put yourself out."

That was a very ungracious thing to say. Saying it was a mean thing to do. Damn, it felt good.

Anyhoo, Christmas starts looming on the horizon and the hubs starts asking me what I want for Christmas, and I rub salt in the wound. "Why ask me? You never get me what I ask for, so why set me up for disappointment?" Later queries are met with the set reply "I don't want anything."

Christmas day dawns and the cherubs are up at the crack of it, tearing and shredding their way orgiastically through the wretched excess that is Christmas in the Lapczynski home. Dave unwraps and is pleased with his gifts. There is nothing for me under the tree.

There is nothing for me in my stocking, either, which hangs forlorn and anorexic all by itself. The bloated stockings that were filled for Dave and the kids have long since disgorged their bounty and are scattered amid the debris. Mine just glowers at me, empty and humiliated. "Big mouth," it says to me in a rather wooly, sarcastic voice. "Idiot. Well, you got what you asked for. Moron."

I do not respond. I have enough emotional turmoil going on, I don't need to get into it with a snarky sock. Nor do I cry or make a fuss. In fact, I do my best to act as if I am oblivious to my giftless Christmas. I am just struck by the irony that the first time the man ever gives me what I have asked for is when I have asked for nothing. I sit on the couch in a brown mood, watching the kiddies and trying not to think about putting anti-freeze in Dave's coffee.

Then, from behind me, a gorgeous strand of pearls descends into my lap. And another. And another. "Babe, I didn't intend to be mean. I just wanted to shower you with pearls this year."

Boy, did the man get laid that night. Merry Christmas to all.

Jump ahead to 1990. My beloved son is in the high school band which is in the Christmas parade. My hubby and I are watching the parade with another married couple and we wind up in front of Arnold's Furniture Store. The band passes us by and I turn to look in the window and see the most beautiful painting in the most beautiful frame I have ever seen. I nudge my girlfriend and point it out to her. She agrees that it is stunning. We both bring the picture to the attention of our husbands, who make the required and insincere murmurs of praise and accord.

On the way home, I tell the hubs that all I want for Christmas is that picture. I have been completely captivated by it. He nods. Christmas morning comes, and of course, I do not get the picture. Hubby apologizes in a rush when he sees my well-disguised disappointment; he had gone to Arnold's the very next day after work, but the picture was already gone. I was disappointed, but I also was sincerely touched that he'd made the effort. AND he had gotten me a very, very nice gift, so I didn't want to seem like an ingrate.

Later that day, we go to see the married couple with whom we had gone to the parade.

Yep. You guessed it. SHE got the picture for Christmas.

I can't begin to describe the combination of rage, jealousy and shame about the rage and jealousy I felt at that moment, but I can relive it at will.

Jump ahead yet again to the year 1993. By this time, our married friends have divorced. My girlfriend is in need of cash and calls me. "I know how much you love the picture. Would you be interested in buying it?" Hmmm... let me think. Do I want the picture? Hmmm... I have been avoiding her bedroom for three years for fear that seeing it would compel me to strangle on the spot. I have plotted several burglary scenarios which I abandoned because the picture, being the only thing taken, would be a dead give-away... and my friend was in and out of my house all the time, so where would I hang it?

"I might be, " I say cagily. "How much are you asking?"

She sells me the picture for $50. And you say there is no Santa Claus. (yes, you do, I've heard you).

Here's a picture of the picture.

Now, really, weren't those amusing stories? Aren't you glad I didn't tell a joke?