Dear Millie


I am hoping that you can help me out.
You see, I have the greatest guy on earth.
We have been together for a whole year now. He has a good job. He is sweet, charming and super handsome. So, what kind of a problem could I possibly have, right?
No, it's not that.
He just doesn't do very well in the gift giving department.
Last Christmas he bought me a blender. For Valentine's Day he gave me a box of candy. It wasn't even chocolate. On my twenty-third birthday he surprised me with a ceiling fan and a screwdriver with a pink handle. I wanted to stab him with it.
What do you think I should do?
I drop hints all the time, but he doesn't seem to hear them.

Not feeling it in Philly,

Dear Phyllis in Philly,
First of all, you are not alone. This is a common trait among men.
Even the brightest of the bulbs go dim or turn off, when it comes to gift giving.
Second of all, I think a screwdriver with a pink handle sounds rather cute. It just does not qualify as a birthday present.
But you see, the male species does not understand what a hint is. As a matter of fact Millie Noe Enterprises in conjunction with The B.S. Club, conducted a study on that very subject.
What we found was astounding.
84.75% of all men in the study didn't even understand the survey.
The rest of them never filled it out.

This is why it is absolutely necessary to just go ahead and tell your man what is on your mind, straight up.
You could say, "Darling, a screwdriver with a pink handle could qualify as a little surprise that you could give to me on a Monday, for no reason other than it is a Monday, and you thought it was really cute."
You could also say, "Honey, giving me a screwdriver for my birthday is an invitation to having a picture of you with that pink handle sticking out of your forehead, splashed across the front page of the paper, under a headline that reads, BIRTHDAY PARTY GONE AWRY, SHE WANTED A POWER DRILL."
I will never forget my first Christmas with Sven, surrounded by his family in his parents' crowded living room. That was the Christmas that I decided to quit wasting any time nudging him toward those pretty sweaters on the TV or saying things like, "Did you see what Pierre gave Louisa?"
That Christmas Day, once we were all over the shock of the gift that came out of the box that weighed as much as a bowling ball, that turned out to actually be a bowling ball, I wanted to throw it at him.
Of course I didn't do that.
I wanted to make a good impression with his family and all.
And it was too heavy.
"How much does this thing weigh?" I said, trying to get a hold of it.
"Thirteen pounds," says Sven, fanning out his feathers.
"Thirteen? Are you kidding me?"
"Well Millie," he says, I thought if your ball weighed a little more it might actually knock some pins down."
I tipped my head and slammed what was left of my glass of wine.
"That is going to be very difficult," I said.
"You'll get used to it," he says. "Maybe you will build up some muscles."
"Sven it doesn't even have any holes in it," I snapped.
"We have to take it in. They will drill them."
"Oh," I said.
Now Phyllis, I have to admit that Sven did have a good argument.
"But Millie," he said, on our way home, "It has a rose tattooed on it. That is why I picked that one out."
That is my Sweet Sven.
And that is when I explained to him that a bowling ball, with or without being all pretty and purple and with or without a rose tattooed on it, does not qualify as a Christmas present."
"What does it qualify for?" he asks.
"A Tuesday gift."
"A Tuesday Gift?" he says.
"Yes," I answered. "I think it is too nice for a Monday."


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