I Got You That

Does every family have that super-crafty cousin? The one who presents you with a beautiful handmade fill-in-the-blank (quilt, scrapbook, needlepoint pillow, cookie assortment, etc.) perfect for the occasion and reports “I made it myself.” This shy declaration is followed by 3-4 minutes of utter disbelief and flabbergastion. (In my family this period also involves a lot of swearing, of the getthefookouttahere variety). That kind of person is always a hit at holiday parties, isn’t she?

And, in her well-deserved glory, the craftswoman makes the rest of us feel inadequate. Or maybe that’s just me, for I have no talent for physical labor of any sort, unless sleeping qualifies. I am neither artsy nor crafty, when it comes right down to it. I’m reduced to taking credit for slice-and-bake cookies, or showing off a particularly compelling stick figure doodle.

In my family, Cousin Barbara was the crafty one, and Tom her husband. Even when the gift was store-bought Tom didn’t do the shopping. But, not to be one-upped by his wife, he began telling people “I made that” – the more improbable the gift, the better. One holiday season he “made” a windshield-mounted compass and at least one batch of Jack Daniels. I like his style. I aspire to a similar flair for talentless generosity.

And then there’s my brother’s art of giving. The scene: a graduation party. When the camera comes on he is holding someone’s jacket, at least one purse and an umbrella, and he abhors holding things. Behind the congratulatory main event he wanders silently, handing off an item at a time – mostly to his wife and other mothers. (Mothers engaged in conversation will, in my experience, distractedly accept anything extended insistently at them. I urge you to test this theory with the maternal types in your life; the less hygienic the gift, the higher the point value). Then, like Santa Claus divested of his toys, my brother strikes out in search of sustenance and returns shortly with cookies. End of scene.

Thus with role models in mind, I decided to make the most of a nervous habit. I peel the labels off of bottles. And when the bottles in question were once filled with alcohol and their number is quite large, one is left with an abundant supply of damp paper and an inflated regard for one’s own humor. I took to handing the labels to friends (and in some particularly dire cases, strangers) with the advisement “I got you that.” Who wouldn’t want such an impromptu gift? Even the most useless trash is more fun when recycled as presents. “Here; I got you that” has been extended to almost anything you can give to someone else – the ketchup, a quarter found on the ground, gum wrappers, a hard time. It’s the thought that counts, right?

I am not merely artless and poorly crafted. I am, to add insult to injury, also talentless in the performance department. That means no song and dance, no athletics, no magic tricks, nothing. I know a knock-knock joke or two, and that’s about it. I have one friend who can sing with her mouth closed – she sounds like she has a tiny Ethel Merman sitting on her tongue – and another who can talk like a duck. I know yo-yo-ers and jugglers and people who can do shocking things with a hula-hoop. I count opera singers, flautists, and dancers – not to mention karaoke aficionados, semi-professional whistlers and brilliant storytellers – among my friends and family. Mostly I just sit there, amused but inert.

This is a shame when you hang with musicians, actors, comedians and the like. (Or the Irish, actually; just about all the Irish in my life can perform, and do so with great gusto.) These well-meaning folks are always trying to uncover your hidden talent. It’s a kind of generosity, really, that performers assume you must have something going for you. Having checked the between the couch cushions and in back of the fridge, though, I am forced to admit I have nothing to offer in this regard. Stubbornly waiting it out isn’t going to change that, though it could result in your hearing me recite poetry from 6^th grade or pantomime the extended remix of “The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly”.

I like to think my true gifts lie elsewhere, though it’s still possible I lack them altogether. I’m also working on a killer lip synch routine, complete with hairbrush and dramatic air-grabbing. In the meantime, I have declared my talent to be audience member. It’s a venerable role and in high demand, though rarely associated with any hard-won skill. In the hip-hop world, I’m known as a witness. But I’m an above-average listener.

And here; I got you this round of applause.