Tag: gifts

Tea-cluttering: One way to get ‘Happy’

I received one of my best Christmas presents ever this past year. I don’t think it was very expensive and it certainly isn’t beautiful to look at, as objects go. It is made of plastic, in fact, a simple organization tool. And in that lies its beauty.

I’m a tea drinker, especially in winter. It’s interesting how my habits are seasonal — I rarely make a cup of tea at night at the beach in summer, for instance. However, in the winter and fall months, I have steaming chamomile or ginger or sometimes a soothing sleep-inducing elixir almost every night. I don’t always drink much of the tea once made — I find the almost-full cup on the family room coffee table the next morning — but the act of making the tea persists and soothes.

Except the beginning of this ritual has always created in me a bit of angst. After putting on the kettle, I open the cabinet and reach up to the second shelf above the cereal (there’s always at least three opened boxes of Honey Bunches of Oats), where all the tea cartons are crammed into two metal bins, some spilling out over the top, others wedged in so I can barely reach them. My caffeine-free nighttime favorites are usually the ones lying on the top, so not hard to access. But each time I pull out the metal container, some boxes fall to the side or on the counter or, occasionally, on my head.

Oh, I’ve tried to organize them — divide them into two groups, herbal and caffeinated, or pack according to size, like jammed-in puzzle pieces. But like that pair of jeans that is just too tight, they never manage to really fit. So when my sister sat in my kitchen and asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I thought, what do I really want?

“I want a tea organizer. I have no idea if they make those. And I don’t want a fancy box like they present to you in restaurants. I want something that can go in this cabinet.”  As if working on the “The Price is Right,” I reached up and pulled out my makeshift system of ill-fitting boxes in too-small bins, gave her a “see what I mean?” look, and she nodded.

“OK, I’ve got it. I’m not saying I can find it, but I’ll try.”

And that was that. I basically forgot about it. I didn’t start looking for the item myself — no googling “tea storage” or asking if she’d found it yet. That would make me seem organized. In fact, I only realize I have the “tea problem” whenever I make tea. Then I make the tea and the problem goes away, and I don’t think about it any more — until the next night, when I make tea again.

So when on Christmas Day I opened what is officially named the “Tea Stand” (I only just now noticed its name etched on the end), I was a little surprised. I surveyed the slim, gray box with two-by-three rows of clear slots on each side and an indented groove at one end to easily grasp the whole miraculous contraption, and a smile spread across my face.

“I can’t believe you found this.” I said, beaming. “It’s perfect.”

Which it really is. A beautiful, plastic house for tea. Or maybe more like a tiny apartment building — one that may as well have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright I far as I’m concerned. Weeks after receiving it, I felt compelled to gush to my sister:  “I’m so happy every time I make tea.”

Such a small item, such a huge difference. Suddenly, instead of reaching up and wincing when little boxes bounce off my head, I gratefully grasp the grooved plastic handle and pluck a tidy packet from one of the open-topped slots on either side.

Without a modicum of angst, I unwrap the bag, place it in the mug, and put on the kettle. Then I slip the synthetic sculpture back onto the shelf, as if returning a book to its exact spot at the library. A perfect fit, this perfect gift.

What is it about getting “the perfect gift,” I wonder. Of course, it’s pleasing to use or look at or do, depending on what the gift is. But there’s more. It’s affirming. The perfect gift says the giver knows you, and you feel known. In giving to you, they “get” you. That’s a gift that, like a good cup of tea, warms to the core.

Pharrell Williams gets “Happy” – which is how I feel now every time I make tea:

Postscript

In the previous post I described spending many hours making a photo album for my father’s 87th birthday. We presented it to him last weekend during a big family celebration. All in all, it was a huge success. But there was one small glitch that ultimately presented itself as an opportunity for me (once again) to “deal” with imperfection — and my own temper. Not that I expect perfection and niceness all the time, but considering all the effort I’d put into the album, this instance was, in retrospect, pretty, um … funny. (Apologies in advance to my husband, who is an amazing person and not only managed to spend the entire weekend with my family, but actually seemed to enjoy it.)

Here’s the scene: It is lunchtime Friday and my parents have just arrived at the hotel. Since our kids are swimming in the pool and not ready to eat yet, my husband decides to have lunch with my parents in the cafe. Toward the end of this meal, my daughter and I, dry and dressed by now, decide to join them. As I settle into the extra seat at the table, there are smiles and hugs and happiness all around. Then someone — maybe my mother — says something about how my husband has just let my father read what I wrote about him that week — including the part at the beginning where I say we are surprising him with a photo album for his birthday.

As my parents express appreciation for what is essentially a tribute to my father’s values and even temperament, especially as a parent, I can barely keep a lid on my own temper. I just look straight across the table at my husband, as my parents on either side glow and say nice things, none of which I hear because of the steam shooting out of my ears.

I give the “laser look” to my husband, trying not to be too obvious to my dad, seated at my right, so it probably looks like I have a weird tick of smiling to my right, then turning to glare straight ahead at my husband, then smiling right, glaring ahead, smiling, glaring …

My husband throws me a quizzical look like, What is wrong with you?? As my parents chit-chat, I mouth to him, “It was a SURPRISE”… I do that, demonstrably, a couple of more times, as I see it dawning on him what has happened.

“Sorry,” he mouths back.

I am fuming. How could anyone be so mindless? He let my dad read it?? ARGHHHHH!!!

But there is literally nothing I can do except sit there, simmering, try to slap a smile on my face and change the subject. And, of course, talk only to my parents for about 10 minutes and not so much as glance at my husband.

Finally, I shoot him a look, and he looks right back. I can tell I am going to have to suck this one up. His mistake comes from a good place, after all, and my father is behaving as though nothing has happened and he has not just been informed that the family gathering this weekend is essentially for him and that furthermore, there is a surprise gift we all conspired to keep secret from him for weeks.

I keep up light conversation, but inside am still incredulous. I mean, what??? I am going to need some time to calm down. I know this is my husband being sweet, supportive, loving — it’s all good!! Right?? Except I am pissed.

We rise from the table and my mother, also in on the secret, murmurs to me, “Don’t worry, I don’t even think he got it.”

Yeah, right.

My husband and I speak briefly and I say something not very conciliatory like, “I can’t believe you did that,” and then we all walk out of the restaurant. Yeah, I am really proud of my generous and understanding behavior. I know I need to just shake it off and move on.

It takes about a day — in the workout room on the elliptical machine I realize that I’m still ruminating over The Big Slip — but I eventually calm down and am even able to tell myself that maybe it’s a good thing my dad knows about the album. He doesn’t love the limelight, and perhaps this has given him a little time to prepare.

When we finally present him with the album two nights later, he appears to express genuine surprise. And delight.

And my husband and I don’t talk about it again. Oh, there is one moment on the car ride home, when he turns to me out of the blue and says, “By the way, your dad didn’t know anything about the album. It was a complete surprise.”

I say nothing for a few seconds. Tiny vapors waft from my ears. I look back at him.

“Maybe you’re right.”

A dip in the pool might have cooled my temper...
A dip in the pool might have cooled my temper…