I often miss the staff of the university library where I catalogued (was it really over five years ago?). They became kind of like a family, with, sometimes, the attendant quirkiness and infighting. So eventually, as in every family, the time comes for the offspring to move out.

But there were good times. One of the nicest traditions was the holiday white elephant-style exchange party.

At least in theory.

Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without one humbugger, and, in an act of sheer dumb coincidence, I just happened to bear the brunt secretly three years running. The entire staff knew just what a mule this person is in general, and probably each has their own teeth-gritting story to tell. This is mine.

It’s difficult to find just the right balance in a white elephant gift. You’ve got to juggle the low price imposition, the expected kitsch/humor factor, and at least a little practicability. Considering that, I think did a pretty decent job.

Year one. An impossibly huge ceramic “snack” set, consisting of a soup mug and bread plate festooned with borderline tacky candy canes and mistletoe abounding. The recipient who chose it from the pile made it obvious that it didn’t meet her high white elephant standards. The next person in line was charmed, however, and, as was her higher-number privilege, she “stole” the gift in lieu of opening a wrapped one.

Year two. Oh! I stumbled upon the most adorably-designed dustpan and brush at Target. The brush was a brown squirrel, the business end his bushy tail. And the pan was a green leaf, the handle/”stem” to which the squirrel could quite handily cling. If I hadn’t been so disgustingly poor at the time, I would’ve had one of my own, too (no - I paid nowhere near $30 for mine! Eesh!). In retrospect, I should’ve just given it to myself… because you’ll just never guess who chose my gift yet again. And she was even less thrilled than the year before, proclaiming the gift’s utter ridiculousness loudly and often. I admit, I don’t take criticism of my gifts well, so this repeated bashing was becoming quite a killjoy.

Year three. I’m nothing if not a closet optimist, so I decided to try again. I found a flowerpot breadmaking kit, complete with everything you’d need to bake a small cute loaf. And… well, you can probably see where this is going.

“What is this! Every year, I pick something stupid! I’m not doing this next year.”

Amen, sister. A-men.