My husband is a great gift giver. I have trained him well. Ever since that year back when we were first married and he gave me a can of tuna and a chocolate bar for my birthday and then followed it up with steak knives and a cork screw for Christmas (true story) he has never went wrong.

Apparently, the absence of a holiday hummer along with an angry wife who chucks sharp pointy objects (re: steak knives and a corkscrew) at your head in a fit of hormonal rage (I was a tad pregnant) is enough to scar a man for life and remind him to put some thought into what he buys for gifts.

He’s never again rushed to Canadian Tire an hour before the store closes on Christmas Eve to redeem his Canadian Tire money and find something to stuff into my stocking.

However, I’ve created a monster. A competitive monster who is determined to out-do me every damn gift-giving occasion. And he does.

I hate losing. But the problem is, I’ve bought him every cool gift out there I could think of and he still shows me up.

I give him golf clubs, he hands me a digital slr camera complete with an assortment of overpriced lenses.

I give him a Wii system, he gives me diamonds.

I prance around nekkid and get down on my knees while he’s stroking the new and expensive tool I know he was secretly coveting and he presents me with keys to a new car.

Well, not really, I only wish, but still, you get the idea.

Dammit, I want to be the one to hand over keys to a new car. Christmas is about giving, after all, not getting. Even if I have twisted the theme into some sadistic, grim competition that barely resembles the jolly sentiment it was supposed to.

I’ve tried everything, from setting price limits, to nixing presents all together and all that does is compound the problem. There I am, sticking to a fifty dollar limit and he hands over a gift worth hundreds. While he sits there, smiling like the evil little elf he has morphed into.

I’ve cajoled and argued, explained our financial limitations to the man, but still he remembers that corkscrew sticking out of his left bicept while ducking from the knives being hurled at his head.

This year, I’m determined to win. Because we all know Christmas is a competition to see who gets bigger bragging rights at the family get-together. I’m tired of everyone oohing and aahing at Boo’s thoughtfulness and awarding him with the crown of supreme gift giver. I want that crown dammit. Even if it is invisible and just in my head. I want them to ooh and ahh over me. And not just cause I’m drunk and stumbling through my jolly rendition of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.’

So I hit the stores hard and scoured the internet. I talked to his friends, called his boss, discussed matters with his mom. I made lists and I checked them twice. I can feel the laurels of victory wrapped around my shoulders. I know I hit gold when my son watched me wrap his father’s presents and a tear of happiness marked his cheek.

You know you’ve hit the gift-giving jackpot when a ten year old boy covets his father’s gifts.

I couldn’t help it. I had to brag. I can almost taste the sweetness of victory. Finally, after years of trying and losing, I have finally ensured my husband will have a better Christmas than me.

Except the little bastard champion gift giver just giggled when I told him he’s going down this year. His reign as supreme and thoughtful gift giver has come to an end.

He was calm. He was casual. He was unconcerned.

Dammit. He’s got something big up that freaking sleeve of his. Why is it I can feel my victory slipping from my grasp?

And what the hell is wrong with me that I’m going to be disappointed to get the best gift ever this year?

Merry facking ho ho ho.