Absolutely nothing required assembly or sneaking around, so for the first time in nearly three decades I didn't have to stay up late on Christmas Eve (although I did anyway).

Most everyone in the family knew what they were getting, with a few surprises.

There weren't quite enough surprises, as the Bon Jovi-related merchandise I got for Teres from her list of stuff still to get turned out to be the same stuff she had in fact already ordered for herself. Fortunately I also found her one of the "Have a Nice Day" smirk necklaces. The hard case we got for James turned out to be too small for his bass despite our careful measuring. Still, everyone seemed pleased.

I received:

- A safety razor, holder, blades, beaver hair brush and soap dish (all of which I had asked for, as I plan to start wet shaving with a safety razor to save money and, one hopes, get a better shave).
- "Vanilla Ride" by Joe R. Lansdale (the latest in his Hap and Leonard series, from my housemate, marking the 1st time in many years someone has managed to surprise me with a book I didn't know existed but would immediately have bought myself if I had).
- A carved walking stick (from Teres, so I'd have something unexpected, which it was).
The Incredible Hulk TV series Ultimate Collection (from my son James, who decided my DVD shelf wasn't cheesy enough).- A signed autograph of Walter Cronkite (from my son Tony, because he knew I didn't have one and the likelihood of me getting one seemed bleak).
- Money (from mom, who knows what I like) (Also she gave me fudge)
- The Regular Expressions Cookbook (an unexpected gift from my friend Shmuel, who has answered several panicky instant-messaged regular expressions questions from me in the past and apparently decided to head the next one off) (not pictured; it's at my work desk already).

And some of the money that would have gone into prezzies for me instead was diverted towards the Guilt Camera Teresa bought me (not pictured, cuz it was busy picturing).

All in all, a good haul and a great Christmas. My son Tony was here with his girlfriend Laura, my bro-in-law Rodger came over, and we opened prezzies, went to see "Sherlock Holmes" (quick review: not a great movie or a real cinematic gamechanger, but an awful lot of fun to watch if you can get past the idea of Holmes having any sort of romance) and came back to play "ImagineIf" for hours with lots of uproarious laughing and good natured personal abuse.

Hope yours went as well. Happy holidays, folks.

Except for our house, where it remains resolutely dark.

Not out of any dislike of the holidays, really. We like seeing everybody else's decorations. We just don't get that motivated to do it ourselves. We have a Charlie Brown tree we stick on a table and that's about it.

Now Halloween decorations are a different thing entirely. We have an extremely unsettling fake rubber bat that's been hanging in a tree by our front door for about six years now, perfect for freaking out pizza delivery guys and hopeful religious visitors. True Halloween decorations should not look like decorations. No "Happy Halloween" or cartoon-eyed skeletons for us. Why put up plastic pumpkins when a few heaps of real bones saved from a month of dinners by the front door can be much more disturbing?

Basically, our goal is to become "The Old Bridges Place," the house in the neighborhood the kids dare each other to approach. Festive holiday cheer, no. Terrifying home decor, yes.

Ho ho ho.

Please plan your activities accordingly, especially if you're planning anything formal tonight. Remember, kazoos fit nicely into even the smallest purse or tux pocket, and nothing finishes off a romantic evening better (or more completely) than a kazoo.

This is also as good a time as any to mention the movement at kazooamerica.org to make the kazoo America's National Instrument. This plucky music maker is an ideal choice for our national musical mascot. After all, it's so democratic: anyone can play a kazoo successfully (for a given definition of "successfully").

The movement has already made great strides with appearances on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, Fox and Friends, CBS Sunday Morning News, Martha Stewart, and has won approval from bemused and often bewildered politicians across the country.

So join the hordes of buzzing musicians and help us fight to honor this lowly instrumentby raising it to the level of national recognition. Wouldn't you love to see President Obama playing the kazoo, possibly leading Congress into a rousing rendition of "America the Beautiful"? Some days, I can think of little else.

This is the magic time when bikes get assembled, game systems get quietly hooked up, surprise presents make their appearance from carefully concealed locations, and a few cookies get eaten.

Everyone in the house is asleep. I feel like I should be doing something. Finished up a last-minute gift for Teres she's not expecting, but it's not a big deal (new homemade bumper stickers to replace the ones she's worn out, a match set of "I LOVE BON JOVI" and 'AND MY HUBBY TOO, PROBABLY"). I'm used to extravagant surprises. Our Christmas mornings used to involve a fair amount of showmanship.

One morning many years back, my oldest (only, at the time) son woke abruptly at six in the morning to see Santa Claus, white beard,, red suit, hat and all, leaning over him. Santa told him "Merry Christmas, Tony," smiled, and ran for it. By the time he struggled out of his carefully-tucked-in sheets and came after me, I was in my own bed, unKringled and snoring better than Gielgud. The rest of the day his presents were almost untouched; he was still raving about his visitor.

We decided to go the Lilliputian route with James once. We spent weeks driving around, buying up all the stormtrooper Star Wars figures we could find by laborious store-by-store search (this was before the heyday of eBay). When James awoke there were thirty of them, all aiming weapons at him, under the command of Darth Vader and Grand Toff Muffin or whatever his name is. There was also a 6-foot inflated Godzilla leaning over him. (I'm sure it was canon.) It was definitely worth the hassle, though, watching him test his potty training skills to the max. They say his bladder grew three sizes that day…

I've spent the early hours of Christmas building kits, inflating castles, hooking up electronics, setting up computers, redecorating rooms, composing panoramas of themed toys in meticulous detail, all for that one look of pure joy in a child's face before the greed sets in and packages start flying.

I came by it honestly. My mom was a demon at Christmas surprises. Anything I thought I was getting would come in odd sized packages so I couldn't guess, or she'd take it apart and give it to me in seven different packages. One year she didn't label anything so I couldn't figure out which ones to peek at (on Christmas morning she told me the green ones were mine). I'd fight back with presents containing sand, bricks, stoppered bottles of water, whatever would confound her guessing ability. Christmas was not only a family holiday, it was a battle of wits with my presents on the line.

We don't have as much of that this year. Kids are grown, they're starting to get in on the behind-the-scenes part themselves. But we did have a late-night run; three of the presents we ordered for James didn't arrive in time, despite plenty of lead time, so we ducked out to the only place open at midnight on Christmas Eve (Walgreens) and joined the panicked throngs ton find a few more silly gifts to pad out his currently meager pile. He'll be happy, especially when the other items arrive and he ends up with more than anybody.

This is the time when everything is still, the tricks are carefully laid in place, the traps are set, the evidence is thrown away, and anticipation is all that's left.

2 a.m. on Christmas is my present to myself.

I, however, am far more imaginative than that, and so I’m going with the third topic: predicting what will happen with my resolutions. Ready? Let’s go!

GET IN SHAPE

Little vague for a resolution, really. I already have a shape — that of a Bartlett pear — and it serves me well. I am difficult to abduct, I wobble back to an upright position no matter how far I am tipped, and when sitting I always have a useful table in front of me to hold snacks and beverages. Why change?

START A DAILY EXERCISE REGIMEN

That’s more like it. Healthy, smart, forward-thinking. I’ll actually do it too – assuming “daily exercise regimen” translates to “feebly work out with awkward, barely-remembered exercises from junior high gym for nine days before oversleeping once and then never exercising ever again.”

EAT HEALTHIER AND HEART-SMART

Oatmeal! Fruit with every meal! Lean meat! No fat, no sugar, no white bread! Death to carbs! This will last until mid-February, when I’ll begin twitching within 20 feet of a Cheese Doodle. By the 21st I’ll be getting up at 3 a.m. for a few stolen spoonfuls of bacon grease, and on March 15 I will ceremonially eat my last salad of 2008 (except for one Caesar’s salad snarfed next December to help me pretend I kept at it).

SPEND MORE TIME WITH THE KIDS

My kids, anyway. The rest of them kinda creep me out, they’re like shrunken adults with self-control probl… they’re like shrunken adults.

For the first few weeks of January I’ll be hanging around with my 15-year-old spending time together and doing everything we can think of, which means watching him play his video games, listening to his stories about video games and going with him on father-son trips to buy more video games. By the 17th I’ll snap and secretly join World of Warcraft myself specifically to hire mercenaries – probably a team of merciless 12-year-olds from Dubuque — to kill his character so the stories will stop, stop, blessedly stop.

The 22-year-old is tougher, since he took off for college, but for the next several months I’ll recapture our relationship by showing up at random, inconvenient times to crash on his couch, mooch his food and leave unidentifiable stains behind his TV, along with my laundry. I’ll finally stop after the court order in June, but the hearings will give us some nice quality time together through the summer.

SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY WIFE

She’s a lovely lady, and there’s no one I’d rather spend time with. Just need to finish checking my e-mail, updating some pages, cleaning out the extra files on my hard drive, cleaning my car, building those shelves, finishing that book, and then I’ll be right there, honey!

No, wait. Bad! Instead I’ll learn to reprioritize and put all that aside, working on it in the late night or early morning when she’s asleep so we can spend more time together. We’ll be inseparable! Whenever she wants to go anywhere, do anything, eat anything, watch anything, I’ll be right there with her. If she takes a step, I’ll finish it for her. We will be two halves of the same body again, just like we were in the beginning.

By April 5 she’ll have installed deadbolts on the bedroom to get some peace and quiet, and hung an emergency ladder out the window so she can eat a meal without me staring soulfully at her for five damn minutes. I’ll console myself by making a Web site about her, which works better for me anyway.

READ THE GREAT WORKS OF LITERATURE

Won’t even get past the first week with this one. Sorry, Dickens. Forget it, Bronte sisters. Not a chance, any Russian writer at all. As soon as the first hint of multi-layered prose hits my forebrain I’m outta there. I will, however, make a greater effort to watch more movies based on great works of literature.

That effort will fade away by mid-May, to be replaced with a half-hearted resolution to watch more "Simpsons" episodes that reference great works of literature.

HELP THE LESS FORTUNATE

This one’s trickier, as for the most part I don’t like the less fortunate. Many of them seem to be aware that my presence on the more fortunate side of the equation is through sheer unwarranted luck and, worse, easily remedied.

Instead I shall start the year off by giving to charities with easily accessible Web sites. I don't know, somehow knowing that my clicking is going to help someone just gives my finger a warm feeling inside. I will also try to help make my fellow man’s life a little easier by washing my clothes before I throw them out, and by wasting my food in clean, sealable containers.

In July, I’ll volunteer to help in a food kitchen but only after telling my attractive 30-something friends that I’m really going on a hot date. Then, when they show up there, I’ll have to resort to zany hijinks to get out of that sticky situation.

BE MORE RESPONSIBLE WITH MY MONEY

Do I really need a third stone gargoyle? (Answer: yes.) It’s time to buckle down and start making my money work for me, instead of running away from me screaming the way it does now. I’ll invest heavily in whatever stocks the popular stocks Web sites tell me to, so that when the market crashes in August (spoiler alert!) my fate will be intertwined with theirs.

Although not, for some reason, with the people who write for the stocks sites, who will miraculously escape financial ruin, although they will be hunted down for sport in September by destitute mobs.

WRITE COLUMNS ON TIME

I’ve already blown this one, so never mind. Maybe the pH balance is off on my pool of boiling creativity…

You can try pulling off the old “Christmas has become too commercialized so I’m donating to charity in my friends’ names at the very last minute instead” routine, but it doesn’t work for everyone, especially when the charity listed is mostly famous for its happy hour and all-you-can-eat wings.

Instead, try performing some useful, thoughtful kindnesses for your friends and family that they’ve put off, never knew about, or would never consider. Show that you're really thinking about your friends' well-being by making their lives easier and less stressful in some small way. Some examples:

Do their laundry. Take away your friends' tired feeling of dread of looming household chores by sneaking over to their house to wash, dry, and fold all of their clothes. Take them out to a laundry service if you need to. Wouldn’t that be great to come home to? Especially if your friends have never had anything dry-cleaned before, and you just know that some of those delicate items you found stashed in secret places in their closets will need careful attention. Fold their clothes, add a touch of lilac, and get them back by Christmas morning for a delightful and unexpected surprise.

Why stop with laundry? Vacuum, straighten, do the dishes, groom the dog. No point changing the bed linens since those are still at the Laundromat, but you can scrub and sweep and dust. Imagine the look on your friends’ faces when they come home to find their lives made easier and all of their cherished belongings just a tiny bit out of place!

Don't neglect the outdoors. Mow the lawn, trim the hedges, weed the flower bed. Again, if you’re pressed for time you can hire a lawn care service to do it. But don’t let them do it during the day, your friends might find out. You’ll have to pay a little extra, but get the lawn service to come by at night and work silently in the yard. Be sure to instruct them to avoid eye contact or visible lights and to run away immediately if spotted. Don’t want to spoil the surprise!

Have your friends' photos enlarged and framed. This is a very personal, very practical gift that will bring back some heart-stirring memories. Don’t take entire photo albums, that’s too obvious. Just remove any distinctive photos of family members that will look good in a frame, especially nice, clear photos of their children. Also good: those “special” photos you found hidden in the underwear drawer will make a great photo montage. You can always sneak the originals back later, now that you have the spare set of keys they kept in a kitchen drawer.

Help them out with their children. Holiday planning is bad enough but now the kids are out of school and they want to go places all the time. Moms and dads have no time to think, much less get anything done! Take that problem away by dropping by when your friends are away, possibly filling out reports somewhere, and giving their kids rides to anywhere they’d like to go; movies, parties, unannounced sleepovers at friends’ houses. The kids will love knowing they’re doing something great for their parents, who have been looking a little upset recently. Although that just may be from wearing the same clothes several days in a row.

Get their car fixed. Or maybe not fixed, that’s a little extravagant for a present, but you can get the oil changed. Just borrow the car – or use the spare key you have – and run it over to Jiffy Lube. A fairly inexpensive and thoughtful gift that will cheer your friends up, and it’s not like they’ll need to go anywhere since they seem to spend all their time in the house, looking out through the curtains and hugging each other.

Have food sent to your friends’ house. Prepaid, of course, from one of the several excellent full-meal services in the area. Don’t send pizza, send something extravagant you know they haven’t tried before. No one needs extra pressure at Christmas, and receiving surprise late-night deliveries of food from unfamiliar delivery people can really help soothe the spirit. Besides, it’s not like they can go get takeout, what with their car gone. Be sure to send extra for the news crews.

Everyone sends cards, usually generic ones bought at the same stores. Be original and call your friends’ house to sing Christmas carols to them. Disguise your voice, you don’t want them guessing who you are yet! Call at all times – morning, noon, 4 a.m. – to keep them guessing. But remember, it’s rude to keep people on the phone for too long, so don’t sing for more than a minute and 45 seconds. Your reward will be the tears of love and helpless affection you hear on the other end.

And then, on Christmas morning, when you show up with their freshly folded laundry in the back of their smoothly running car, with their children singing Christmas songs in the front seat, you’ll be able to see the expressions on your friends’ faces when they finally realize all you’ve done for them. They’ll be so worked up, I bet they’ll hardly be able to speak.

You might want to have your own car ready nearby, possibly already running, so you can get out before their gratitude gets too emotional.

Or violent.

Merry Christmas!

Most resolutions happen soon after the horrified realization of the state you woke up in on New Year's afternoon, but those are usually unthinking, knee-jerk reactions to the sight of your own bodily fluids as opposed to well-thought-out guidelines for a new and improved you. Such panicky resolutions are often extreme and unrealistic, such as "I'll lose 84 lbs by Arbor Day" or "I'll never drink vodka and lighter fluid again."

Me, I prefer to choose my resolutions carefully so that I can carefully craft myself into the perfectly realized paragon of humanity that is my destiny. Also I like resolutions I have a slim chance of keeping, like "I resolve to wake up, most days." Here's my list.

I resolve to never again think that people with cell phones are "asking for it."

I resolve to go to the gym at least three days a week, or however often the blonde in the pink Lycra shows up.

I resolve to floss much more often. In fact, the new me will floss not just teeth but between any two parts of my body that are in regular contact.

I resolve to treat every other living soul I meet exactly as I would wish to be treated, by giving them money and a luxury car.

I resolve to read the dosages much more carefully from now on.

I resolve to stop yelling out obscene and unwanted commentary during Saturday morning library storybook time, if at all possible.

I resolve to stay out of the SWAT marksman's line of fire.

I resolve to stick closer to my diet, even to the point of having a copy on my person at all times to give me something to read in the line at McDonald's.

I resolve to remember that "Not to Be Taken Internally" doesn't refer to where I'm standing at the time.

I resolve to give the psychiatric interns a bit more slack next time.

I resolve to stop firing off fire extinguishers in movie theaters, no matter how much those loudmouths in the back rows deserve it.

I resolve to stop calling Sunday morning talk radio shows to request "Smack My Bitch Up."

I resolve to always, always, always make sure the person I'm chatting with online is really female, of age, and not affiliated with any local or federal law enforcement agencies. Fool me once, shame on you…

I resolve to stop adding the words "in space" to anything anyone says to me.

I resolve to cut back on how much old growth timber I personally log for recreational use.

I resolve to stop training my dog to attack anyone wearing a tie.

I resolve to observe all applicable restraining orders, no matter how inconvenient.

I resolve to think of better excuses for my habitual workplace tardiness, as the "orphanage fire" and "roadside space shuttle assistance" ones are getting old.

I resolve to stop sneaking over to my neighbor's house and resetting his TiVo so it stops recording ten minutes before the end of every program. Sure it's fun, but all that screaming is keeping me awake.

I resolve to spend more time with my children and really listen to what they have to say, especially when they use words like "help," "fire," and "hemorrhaging."

I resolve to finally break my non-smoking habit.

I resolve to cut my cola intake to less than one tanker truck a day, barring major holidays or unexpected potato chip outbreaks.

I resolve to stop making all my decisions by throwing darts, especially while driving.

I resolve to quit using the vacuum tubes at the bank drive thru to send unexpected gerbils to the tellers, no matter how funny it is.

I resolve to give all people, no matter what their political, religious, and philosophical beliefs may be, the same respect I give to any ravenous attack dog.

And, finally, I resolve to more fully appreciate all the things my life has blessed me with. Even the dumb stuff.

In space.

But this Fourth landed on a Tuesday and out here in the woods my neighbors have been observing our nation's independence for five days running now, firing off colorful munitions every night in a joyous celebration of the fact that dealers out of state will still sell weapons-grade fireworks to minors, and if that isn't a symbol of this country's freedom I don't know what is.

The Fourth is a day of our country honored, liberties celebrated, forefathers venerated. The Fifth is a day of lessons learned and a slight loss of hearing. The bangs from the night before are all just empty, sulfurous cardboard casings now. Bare sparkler sticks lying in the grass, waiting for the unsuspecting lawnmower next Saturday. Burnt smears on the driveway where Dad lit the brightly colored packages from a roadside tent while the kids stood far, far back, ready to go "ooh" and "aah," with good reason.

All those brightly colored warning labels? All the dire prophecies and wartime stories of kids losing fingers, eyes, and credit ratings because of Improper Use of This Product? They are all, every one of them, true. And these are the lessons I have learned on previous Fifths of July.

Holding on to lit fireworks and then throwing them might cost you a finger. Or a car. Most of the stories of this happening are from kids who hang on to the lit fireworks too long, or encounter a faster-than-expected fuse, or try to relight a dud. In my case it was because I was Darwinian enough to try throwing a lit firecracker from a moving car, not considering that the wind would blow it back through the rear window (which it did) where it would go off, causing the food wrappers tossed in the back to ignite (which they did) where a foolish school chum would think fast enough to pour his drink on it (which he did) but not fast enough to realize he was pouring alcohol onto an open flame (sigh). Once we dealt with the conflagration I was left with a Chevette with a blackened rear floor and a burnt plastic smell that never, ever went away.

Putting somebody's eye out with a bottle rocket is the least of your worries. I had only minor experience with these until my friend John planned a war. Twenty of us, adequately armed with bottle rockets and lighters, facing off in a clearing in the woods by his house. Results: several injuries from burnt fingers, one guy hit in the head by a rocket, one guy hit in the head by a bottle, and John getting badly burned because the handful of rockets he had stuck in his back pocket, with fuses tangling, proved to be too much of a temptation for his fellow marksmen.

Smoke bombs — the little round ones — are not useful in espionage situations, at least not at my level. Turns out that releasing clouds of noxious smelling gray smoke actually gets you unwanted attention, rather than hiding you. Who knew?

M-80s are not as useful for anthill demolition as you'd think. Mostly they just made a whoomph noise and the dirt shifted a little, and that was it. And that was with 70's and 80's M-80s, when they were considerably more powerful than the measly legal flash bombs they are today. They were useful for mailbox demolition, but in a suburb neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else and phone calls would get home before I would, this was never a viable option.

Even the prepackaged theme sets from the local grocery store can be hazardous, if you use them right. After being bored by sprits of sparks and another box of sparklers (Ooh. Aah. Yawn.) we'd just cram the whole mess into a paper bag and light it. This provided the extra drama from not knowing what was going to go off next, or what direction it would be aiming when it went, such as the spinning firework that, rather than whirling around in place in an approved fashion, chose to cartwheel after my girlfriend and then set a bush on fire. Lesson learned: girlfriends don't like being blown up.

And the most important firework warning of all: Parents do not like practical jokes involving loud bangs. This applies to the snap pops you heave at the ground, those little crackers with strings on both ends designed for doors and drawers, amusing little loads you shove into someone's cigarette, and other hilarious pranks. I was never in danger of getting my eye put out (I don't think) but I risked much greater peril from my parents than I ever did from a short fuse. Come to think of it, when it came to my fireworks fun my father had a pretty short fuse, too, and I can't blame him a bit. Not now, anyway.

Worst of all, my frivolous use of fireworks invariably resulted in a personal loss of liberties — usually for a couple of weeks, at least — and liberty is what the holiday is really all about.

So please, combust safely. For your country's sake.

This pink and fluffy holiday began as the ancient pagan festival of Lupercalia where Roman priests would sacrifice a goat (for fertility) and a dog (because it wouldn't stop barking). The boys of the village would then slice up the goat's hide and run through the streets, gently slapping women and crops with the bloody strips to improve the fertility of both or because by that point in the festival they really couldn't tell the difference.

But even then, the anguish inherent in Valentine's Day was exposed. The women of the village complained that the boys didn't hit them with the right bloody goat strips, or that they hit that witch Lucia Bustinia way harder than they hit her and why did they like Lucia better, was she prettier? The boys were too exhausted to answer, having been up all night frantically searching the marketplace for the last few goat strips left because they waited until the last minute.

Today the holiday has become a time to celebrate the power of your love as measured in extravagant gifts. But, despite the demands of society and Hallmark, you shouldn't feel obligated to shower your lady with chocolate-covered diamonds just to fulfill some sort of sex life maintenance fee. What she really wants is to know that you love her beyond life itself, or are willing to fake it. Here are some suggestions.

Serenade her. Actual musical ability isn't required; what's needed here is passion, devotion, and the ability to jump a fence carrying a guitar in case the police get called. If she lives in an apartment higher than the second floor you may need to choose a louder instrument with which to express your love, such as an air horn. (BLAAAT! "YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE!" BLAAAT! "MY ONLY SUNSHINE!")

Hire an investigator to get the names of all of her previous boyfriends and invite them over so she can see how much better off she is with you. Won't she be surprised to see the guy whose abusive behavior in junior high caused her to start cutting herself, or the drunken one-night hookup from Fresno she thought no one knew about?

Better yet, invite all of your old girlfriends to show how over them you are and to help reassure her that you're much happier now even if those other women might be more "beautiful" or "smart" or "sexually advantaged."

Valentine's Day is all about making her feel desired, loved, appreciated. Take the day off from work, put on a disguise, and stalk her.

For her, half the fun of the holiday is bragging to her girlfriends about what a cool, sexy, romantic man she has. You can help by sleeping with all of them so they'll know for certain exactly how lucky she is. Make sure they know that your lady can get what they're getting any time she wants.

By the same token you should be sure to look your best around her at all times. Take the money you would have wasted on flowers or dancing and buy yourself some new clothes instead, to give her the absolute best-looking date she can have. You'll need some new golf clubs, too, and maybe an iPod. But it's all for her.

Give her something unexpected that speaks of your love and eternal devotion, like a suicide pact.

Take her to a fancy restaurant and right there, in front of the other diners, get down on one knee and ask her to marry you. Every girlfriend, especially yours, dreams of this magical moment and you owe it to her to make it as dramatic and romantic as possible. You can even add that extra sense of excitement and urgency the same way car dealers and realtors do, by suggesting she might not be the only one interested. ("You wanna hurry this up? I've got someone waiting in the car.") Just make sure the ring is three sizes too small so you'll have to take it back "to be resized" and can later claim it was a hallucination brought on by bad shrimp.

The point is that it's not expensive gifts she really wants, no matter what she says. She wants attention and affection, which, as it turns out, is amazingly cheap.

And if that doesn't work, sometimes the old-fashioned ways are best: break out the bloody goat strips. Ah, love!

I realize that unless you have bizarre, illegal, and unsavory habits, or you're Billy Bob Thornton, this may seem strange.

It began a few years back when my wife, Teres, on her way to get groceries, made the mistake of asking me if I wanted anything. I replied with the sort of playful, arrested puberty type of response that makes wives and girlfriends roll their eyes and reconsider the benefits of living alone, possibly with a nonverbal pet. She nodded and left as I went back to work chuckling, unaware of what I had wrought.

Hours later she returned and presented me with my request, sort of: a pair of artificial breast prostheses designed to help women who have had mastectomies even out their appearance. Teres was barely restraining her giggles and seemed inordinately pleased with herself. The fact that the breasts didn't even remotely match in size or color only heightened the effect.

Be careful what you ask for, gentlemen, especially when your wife approaches shopping like an extreme sport.

I placed my new breasts on my desk to serve as paperweights, juggling utensils, highly effective conversation starters, and constant reminders that I married a silly person. (To be fair, so did she.)

The tradition had begun. That Christmas I unwrapped the large, ungainly present that had been taking up half the under-tree real estate to find she had gifted me with a torso. A mannequin torso, that is, that she had painstakingly painted to be lifelike and alluring in a creepy, body-snatching sort of way. This truncated beauty was also wearing a painfully tacky, pumpkin-colored nightie that bore a powerful resemblance to the painfully tacky, pumpkin-colored nightie I had inflicted upon her with great hilarity the previous year. There's nothing like retaliation as a driving force behind gift-giving.

It was after she gave me a porcelain hand on my birthday — pale, white, reaching — that I finally realized her goal: Teres was making me a woman, piece by piece, the way Dr. Frankenstein might have done if he had been forced to use layaway.

Ultimately the reason for this is simple: I'm hard to buy for. Not because my tastes are complicated, but because generally anything I'd want I've already bought for myself. What do you buy for the man who's already bought everything? Something he'd never buy for himself. Like, say, a prosthetic foot.

Birthdays, Father's Day, anniversaries, the fractional body count rose. I received eyeballs, a squishy brain, a mannequin head that entirely failed to match the torso, and even an entire stuffed leg complete with stuffed high heel shoe at the end. Little by little our house began to resemble the nip/tuck "Factory Seconds!" storeroom.

Everything found a use. The hand is in our flower bed by the front door, poking up at a slight angle to wave at passersby and disconcert delivery people. The torso is on the piano bench in the living room with different outfits to match events and seasons. The head had been precariously attached to it but has since fallen on hard times due to constant cat attacks and is now missing in action. The leg became a popular item to steal and hide in new and unusual places and it's an unparalleled weapon during pillow fights.

And all of the items, alone and together, help our decor accomplish its intended goal: keeping our guests unsettled. I find it's good to keep your visitors on edge and visibly jumpy; it keeps them from peeking into your cabinets and seeing things they'd rather not find, like lips.

I'm honestly not sure what will happen when she succeeds in getting enough parts for a complete person, although it will probably involve her sewing machine, lightning, maniacal laughter, and Igor handing over makeup utensils.

All of my presents to her, of course, have been perfectly normal, thoughtful, and romantic, tacky nighties aside. Don't believe anything she tells you. You're going to trust someone who gives body parts?