I spent $16 in Angus & Robertson on Thursday. What did I get for my money? Two birthday cards. They were nice birthday cards – tasteful, thick, glossy cello-wrapped items with bling glued artfully on the fronts. But nevertheless, they were just birthday cards.
“That’s not a card, that’s a present,” Jarrod said when I returned to the office, muttering about highway robbery.
He’s right – or he would have been, a few years back.
Time was, I could get away with a box of Roses or a bottle of 4711, get change from a tenner and still leave Mum/Dad/Oma smiling (okay, probably not 4711 for Dad). But even taking in to account inflation, this sort of gift would look cheap these days. And I’d rather give no present at all than proffer something below par.
Part of the shift is that I earn more than I did when I was a dish pig or bar girlie, so I should be able to afford a better calibre gift, right? This theory works right up to where I factor in that I also have more bills – the big scary kind that only a house and a teenager can generate.
I’m starting to figure that an $8 card and the gifts that goes with it every time someone near and dear has a birthday, all adds up – and don’t even get me started on Christmas. Throw in a few good friends and I’m practically bankrupt. The whole gift shemozzle’s creating a pile more debt to add to the mortgage and the orthodontics. And for what? To look affluent and generous. Or, more specifically, to not look tight.
Worth it?
Nope.
Who even looks at the card itself? Isn’t it the message inside that people hang out for? Especially mums, dads and omas. Maybe I can tee up the teen with some Aquadhere and sequins – about time she earned her keep.
My mum goes wild for home‑baked olive bread and Dad can’t resist homemade chocolate fudge. Oma? I'm sure she’s still partial to a box of Roses, even though she knows the cool factor is nada or worse.
Think of the brownie points I’d get for effort and I could put the resulting grand into my home loan or pay off the last of the braces.
Brilliant!
Now that that’s decided, when am I going to find time to bake?
*Sigh*
“That’s not a card, that’s a present,” Jarrod said when I returned to the office, muttering about highway robbery.
He’s right – or he would have been, a few years back.
Time was, I could get away with a box of Roses or a bottle of 4711, get change from a tenner and still leave Mum/Dad/Oma smiling (okay, probably not 4711 for Dad). But even taking in to account inflation, this sort of gift would look cheap these days. And I’d rather give no present at all than proffer something below par.
Part of the shift is that I earn more than I did when I was a dish pig or bar girlie, so I should be able to afford a better calibre gift, right? This theory works right up to where I factor in that I also have more bills – the big scary kind that only a house and a teenager can generate.
I’m starting to figure that an $8 card and the gifts that goes with it every time someone near and dear has a birthday, all adds up – and don’t even get me started on Christmas. Throw in a few good friends and I’m practically bankrupt. The whole gift shemozzle’s creating a pile more debt to add to the mortgage and the orthodontics. And for what? To look affluent and generous. Or, more specifically, to not look tight.
Worth it?
Nope.
Who even looks at the card itself? Isn’t it the message inside that people hang out for? Especially mums, dads and omas. Maybe I can tee up the teen with some Aquadhere and sequins – about time she earned her keep.
My mum goes wild for home‑baked olive bread and Dad can’t resist homemade chocolate fudge. Oma? I'm sure she’s still partial to a box of Roses, even though she knows the cool factor is nada or worse.
Think of the brownie points I’d get for effort and I could put the resulting grand into my home loan or pay off the last of the braces.
Brilliant!
Now that that’s decided, when am I going to find time to bake?
*Sigh*
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