This is a cautionary tale about the best Christmas gift I ever gave my wife.
And the worst.
With the holidays bearing down on us like a runaway 18-wheeler, and Christmas shopping raging like a case of Swine Flu, perhaps my experience could be of service.
I once worked with a crackerjack columnist over in North Platte who had two rules for her contractor husband about Christmas gifts. (She wanted girly stuff like jewelry, expensive perfume and “cute shoes”):
Rule 1. Nothing with an electric cord.
Rule 2. Don't you dare buy me anything housework-related.
She wrote that in a funny newspaper column, but her rules were news to me. I'd been violating them for years.
(My late father in-law, a great guy, once gave his wife a butcher knife and a meat grinder for Christmas. There was speculation in the family about what she might cut off and grind up.)
Same with me. The worst gift I ever gave my wife was a “bathtub spa,” which you hung on the side of your tub, with jets on one side and a pump on the other. Problem was, once you got those jets into the tub, there wasn't much room for you.
But the real problem was that you had to plug the thing in to a wall outlet, and the fear of sudden electrocution detracted from the relaxing spa experience.
Last Christmas, however, I struck gold. Old people like us tend to care more about the weather than you youngsters. So I bought the old gal one of those home weather stations for about $200. On Christmas morning her eyes lit up like a kid unwrapping a Lionel train set.
Problem was, there was “some assembly required.”
I did fine putting the parts together. But then the instructions said to simply “sync” the inside monitor to the outside data collection device, using a cell phone, and do something or other with an “app.”
The syncing didn't work for me. So we sought out a young person for help.
Our older son fit the bill. He's good at computer stuff, but cranky about it.
“Don't touch anything,” he tells us when we ask him about a technical problem. “Did you touch anything? I told you never to touch anything.”
He swiped the screen on my cell phone a couple times, found something he was looking for, and suddenly the dreaded syncing was done. And our son's abysmal opinion of our technical capabilities was confirmed.
So then the weather station worked, and we whiled away our carefree retirement hours checking whether the wind here in Cheyenne was a brisk 50 miles per hour, or a more pleasant 30 miles per hour, perfect for a picnic. It told us the humidity, inside and outside temperatures, rain total for the month, and even when sunrise and sunset would arrive. All small-talk gold for oldsters like us.
My wife, who throws compliments around like manhole covers, said, “That's the best Christmas gift you ever gave me.”
(!)
But then one day we noticed that the wind speed, according to our swell weather station, was zero, all morning. Anyone who knows Cheyenne would smell a rat. Turns out the wind-speed indicator was toast – no doubt worked to death, poor thing - robbing us of data needed to bore friends and loved ones with complaints about the wind.
We called the manufacturer, and after multiple calls and getting to know phone help guy Tim on a first name basis, we packed the whole thing up and sent it back. Then Tim sent us a new one.
And when we got it put together again, it still insisted there was no wind in Cheyenne. Zero.
Couple days later, however - like a technological riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma – it started working.
“It's a blooming miracle,” we said. “Whatever we do, let's not touch anything!”
So that's where we stand today. It works, but we have no idea why. And for the time being, this old retired couple can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about the wind speed in Cheyenne.
Quite a Christmas present. Pure gift-giving gold.
Much better than a bathtub spa.
Dave Simpson can be reached at: DaveSimpson145@hotmail.com
