Well, it’s the holiday season once again. It’s the time of year for festive parties and family dysfunction, for decorating and getting drunk, and for watching “A Christmas Story” repeatedly (even though I’d be perfectly happy never to hear “You’ll shoot your eye out!” again. Ever.)
But the surest sign the holidays have arrived? Why, the Secret Santa gift exchange, of course! It’s a workplace tradition in which everyone brings a wrapped present (except for the same two cheapskates who never bring anything, you know who you are) to put under the lopsided office Christmas tree.
If you bring a gift, you draw a number. After choosing and opening your gift – which might be naughty or nice or somewhere in between – you keep it, or take someone else’s gift. It can get quite competitive. And quite vicious.
But first, we eat. My indigestion is roiling after consuming too many roast beef rolls, too much flat Diet Coke, and about a dozen too many Christmas cookies, but I’ve resolved to “have fun” (even though I’d rather insert pushpins up my nether regions than do this.)
Okay, it’s my turn now. Let’s get this over with. I walk up to the tabletop Christmas tree (why does it always feel like the walk of shame?) and carefully survey the wrapped gifts. Ah, here’s a reindeer-printed gift bag artfully erupting with tissue and curly ribbons.
It was probably wrapped by a female coworker, a coworker’s wife, or Roger, the graphics guy (or possibly Roger’s boyfriend). Seems like a safe bet. Can’t be anything embarrassing, cringe-worthy, or just plain inappropriate in such a pretty, girly package, right?
Wrong.
As I tear away the tissue, I see that it’s a photograph of Roger… except his head is Photoshopped onto the body of a male model reclining seductively on a bearskin rug. In front of a roaring fire. In the nude.
With only a couple of Christmas ornaments to cover his man parts.
And of course, the ornaments are, of course… blue.
As I hold up the photo for everyone to see, hilarity erupts. With shouts of “nice balls, Roger!” and “did you get rug burn?” fill my ears, I wonder how on earth I’ll explain this picture to Mr Oliver. But I’m saved when another coworker wants to trade my Photoshopped hottie for her bottle of Montrachet (she doesn’t like white wine, and she can’t stand Roger, but she wants the picture frame. Go figure). Works for me.
We swap, and I return to my seat with the wine, happy with my new gift. Maybe this secret Santa thing isn’t so bad after all. I’ve barely touched butt to chair when Meg from accounting suddenly snatches the bottle away from me.
“Hey,” I protest.
“I want your Montrachet,” she announces. “Sorry, Katie. Here.” And she thrusts a Hello Kitty One-Thousand Piece Jumbo Jigsaw puzzle into my hands.
I glare at her as she sashays off, brandishing my bottle of wine triumphantly. Bitch.
If Ralphie were here, he’d shoot her eye out.
And I’d be perfectly okay with that.