Jen's Column / Christmas gift

OK, so I didn't post last week's column like I said I would. But that's because it was dulls-ville for anyone not living in Rochester, which would be all of you, right? (It was on ways you can volunteer your time this holiday season...)

To make it up to you, I'm posting this week's column three days earlier! Enjoy. Hope you're all relaxing amidst the chaos of the season! xo, Jen

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Every year, when Christmas rolls around, I tell my husband I don’t want a gift. And I’m not lying. I really am quite content with what I already have. Yet, every year Jay gets me something — and it’s usually perfect.

Last year, however, I got a gift neither of us expected.

It all started last November when our neighbor, Brian, asked if he could store a jewelry armoire at our house. The three-foot-tall, nine-drawered walnut armoire was a Christmas gift for his wife, LaNae. So we put the box in the furthest corner of our storage room and forgot about it.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve. At home for a quiet day, our family was doing typical Christmas-Eve activities: Playing games, wrapping last-minute presents, packing for the next day’s trip “up north.”

I was in the kitchen, assessing the ingredients for our traditional spaghetti-and-garlic-bread Christmas Eve meal, when I remembered the armoire.

“Jay,” I hollered down the stairs, where I’d like to say my husband was hanging the stockings by the chimney with care — but was actually playing a Star Wars Legos videogame with our sons. “Why don’t you pull that armoire out? Brian’s coming by to get it this evening.”

Several minutes later, his answer — “Ah, Jen? You might want to come down here” — sent me flying down the stairs in a mix of apprehension and panic.

And for good reason. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw it: Twenty-five white golf tees were embedded in the cardboard box holding the armoire.

“Who… Did… This?” I stuttered, my hands held over my mouth in disbelief.

My four-year-old smiled proudly. “Look! I made an arrow!” he beamed, pointing at one of the many patterns — including diamonds and smiley faces — engraved dot-to-dot style in the cardboard box.

“No… no… no…” I begged, shaking my head.

“All might not be lost,” Jay interrupted with forced optimism. “There’s got to be Styrofoam in there. Maybe the tees aren’t deep enough to reach the armoire.”

He opened the box: And he was right. Kind of. Twenty-one tees were lodged safely into Styrofoam. But four renegade golf fees were embedded in the walnut — including one broken off in a seam.

Jay and I stared at each other in silence for a full five seconds before shooting frantic looks at the clock and announcing, “We have to get another one!”

I ran to the phone, ripped open the yellow pages and called the mall. Item number in hand, I held my breath while the jewelry manager checked the stock for a replacement.

Nothing. But, she said, there was one armoire left in Red Wing. They closed at 3 p.m. It was 2 o’clock. We could make it.

“We have to go to Red Wing!” I screamed at Jay, who was sitting in the corner looking as green as I felt. “Go! Go! Go!”

He jumped from the chair, bounded up the steps and grabbed his keys, yelling, “Where’s the JC Penney in Red Wing?”
“I don’t know,” I hollered back. “Just go! I’ll call with directions!”

I spent the next hour nauseus — praying we’d have a replacement armoire in our possession before Brian came innocently to the door to retrieve LaNae’s gift.

We did. LaNae got a new — untouched, unscratched, golf tee-less — jewelry armoire for Christmas.
And — Merry Christmas to me — I got the damaged one. The broken tee is still in it.