To all regular readers here at Momisodes that have been around for past Christmases, I have some alarming news.

If you have not read some of my previous infamous Christmas gift stories, click here to get up to speed.

Actually, who am I kidding?  You’re not going to click on the link.  That’s cool.  I understand.  I don’t exactly have riveting prose here.  So allow me to make this easier. Here is a short excerpt just for you.

Originally posted: November 9th, 2007

I’m married, to a guy. One raised on an island inhabited by an isolated species of humans all missing a section of gray matter from their brains; a section directly responsible for the intuitiveness of gift giving. Strangely enough, the island’s population is predominantly men. But clearly, my husband reigns supreme in this land of inconsideration.

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. Perhaps not as commemorative as a 1st, 15th or 21st birthday, but it was at least a milestone. And in today’s aftermath, I have absolutely no gift from a certain mister to speak of. Please don’t think of me as a spoiled little brat. There is more to this post, I promise. But seriously,… nothing?

This lack of acknowledgment uprooted a past incident that left me spitting venom for weeks. Last Christmas, we had just finished moving from California to Massachusetts. In only a few short weeks, I braved the new bitterly cold and unfamiliar surroundings with a toddler to find a thoughtful gift for my husband. So it was to my dismay when I opened my stocking to find this…

Yes boys and girls. That is exactly what you think it is… it’s A TIRE PRESSURE GAUGE! Because nothing gives us ladies the warm fuzzies like a $5 trinket from the local gas station…for CHRISTMAS!…

Many of us who live on the east coast are well aware of the intense snowstorms that came through recently.  And if you did not have to dig your way out of your house or dig to find your car, well, just pretend to be sympathetic here.

Anyhow, the winter storm was due to reach Boston late Saturday night. Thank goodness Dadisodes was able to put on our snow tires before it arrived.

Only problem was, soon after switching out the tires, he swung open the front door and announced, “The tire pressure gauge is broken!”

Dood. You know what this means?

As if it doesn’t already suck that I completely lost my voice from laryngitis, or that can barely walk because of sciatic back pain, or that I pee a little every time I cough (have I mentioned how awesomely glam pregnancy is?).  There stands a good chance I may be receiving a damn car accessory again this year.

I swear, I will fah-reak if I unwrap anything with “P-S-I” on it.  Or, if he thinks that a fancy digital version of a tire pressure gauge is better…

Fah-reak.

Seriously, because there is no need to continue the tradition of bogus-gift-itis.  A card would be better.  No writing necessary. No lie.

It would be a real shame though. Dadisodes has been amazing this year, not only with me, but also with his business and our daughter.  So I spent a lot of time thinking about, scheming, and hiding his gift.

I think I have the receipt somewhere.

Perhaps I should invest in a brown Snuggie for him from Walgreens and give the gift of looking just like a monk.

He can practice looking zen with his new found celibacy.