The Old Broke Rancher Tries To Buy His Wife a Birthday Present

My wife's birthday this year was tough. As those of you over a certain age know, it gets a little tougher every year anyway, but this time it was tougher than a bag of jerky made from Clint Eastwood's desiccated hide.

Some folks are good at buying presents for people. They start early, wandering through every store and public space thinking, "Hmmm, that'd be good for so-and-so—I think I'll buy it now and give it to them on their birthday four years from now!" Their closets are full of presents filed according to name and date, and every one of them is wrapped in $10-a-roll wrapping paper and thoughtfully accompanied by a handmade card that reads, "Oh, here's some silly little thing that made me think of you!"

I'm not one of those people. For me, buying presents is a slog.

In fact, I've searched my mind, and I can only think of one apt comparison that even begins to capture what gift-giving feels like for me, and I am absolutely not exaggerating one bit when I say that, for me, buying my wife a birthday gift literally feels like what it must feel like to crawl a thousand miles through broken glass and quicksand, and every inch patrolled by great big crocodiles.

The biggest problem for me is that whenever it comes to buying gifts, my wife turns as mysterious as a sphinx.

When someone asks me what I want for my birthday or Christmas, I state it to them as simply and uncomplicatedly as I can: cash money. From my son, this year, I asked for $20. My wife, $60. If you're a friend or acquaintance, I'd settle for $5 to $10, inserted into an envelope and mailed to me at the address on the self-addressed, stamped envelope that should be included, gratis, with your copy of the magazine. If no SASE is present, there has been some sort of terrible printing gaffe with the magazine, at which juncture I would understand if you just sent it to me on Venmo.

But my wife, she doesn't communicate in as forward and uncomplicated a way as I do.

Like when I asked her this year, "What do you want for your birthday?" she had an answer at the ready.

"I want young George Clooney to swing low in a sweet chariot and rescue me from here."

I looked at her for a moment, choosing my words carefully.

"How the hell am I supposed to arrange that? Do you have his number and a time machine?"

It was one thing in the days before the internet, because where before I would have been understandably limited to stuff found more or less in the Havre, Montana metropolitan area, now I have all the world's goods and services at the click of a mouse. Somehow, after one long night of sipping whiskey and wandering around Amazon, I almost ordered a gallon jar of powdered camel milk.

"That's all the camel milk my wife would ever need," I thought blearily as my finger hovered over the button.

If all I had to work with was stuff I could buy in Havre, I could probably get away with another pair of earrings or a bracelet that I could hand to her, apologetically, the box clumsily wrapped in last year's Christmas wrapping paper, and say, "I hope you like it! It's all they had!"

I can hear what you're thinking. "Make her something personal, from the heart!"

Okay, smart guy. Like what? Maybe it's easy for you to just make something, Michelangelo, but I haven't made anything that wasn't a fence or a plate of scrambled eggs since having to build a birdhouse in school.

As the date drew nearer, I began to despair. I wanted to grip her by the shoulders, to implore her pathetically:

"How do you expect me to contact George Clooney? Isn't it enough if George Clooney wears age-defying makeup? He actually has to be young George Clooney? How young—ER young, or Batman & Robin young?"

No answer was forthcoming.

Candles, I thought. Women love candles, right? Scented ones that come in expensive tins, that have scents like "Lemon Rosemary Linen Rutabaga" or whatever. Would that satisfy her mysterious cravings? So I searched "FANCIEST CANDLE THAT WOMEN LIKE TO KEEP MY WIFE FROM BEING MAD AT ME EASY TO ORDER" and clicked on the first thing that came up. It was $65. I uttered an expletive and closed the window. What about a fancy, commemorative plate? One of those plates that you never ate off of or washed because it would kill you, but which you displayed as if they were pictures of your beloved children. How about one of those?

In a moment of near-total helplessness, I called my buddy Bobby Pulaski, who is a lot more plugged in than I am. "What the hell am I going to do," I asked Bobby. "I've tried everything! Candles, commemorative plates, uh, makeup…”

"Have you ever heard of Cameo?"

"What's that?"

He told me that it was a website where you can pay celebrities to tell you hello. I thanked Bobby, and pulled it up on the computer, fixing bifocals to my head and trying to find an angle that permitted me to view the screen—a ritual I have to perform if I want to read anything closer than twenty feet away.

I inspected the main page, featuring wrestling legend Mick Foley, who for only $99 will record himself telling you or a loved one to "Have a nice day!" On the cheaper side, you can have Mama June, mother of erstwhile television legend Honey Boo-Boo, say just about anything you want. For hours, I wandered through the website. Would my beloved wife like a love note from one of the cast of the Sopranos? Northern Exposure's Barry Corbin? And who are all of these people labeled "content creators?"

Then an idea struck me which caused my trucker hat to start spinning like a helicopter propeller. What did she say she wanted, after all? For once in my life, I should listen to her. For once in my life, I should try to get her exactly what she wanted.

Trembling, I typed the magic words into the search bar: George Clooney.

The morning of my wife's birthday, I woke her up with a kiss and directed her attention to a laptop that I'd set up next to her in bed, along with a tray on which a steaming mug of coffee and a sweet roll lay waiting.

"What, you want me to watch a video?"

"Yes, dear. Just wait a second."

"Okay, I'm waiting."

"Damn it, hold on, don't I just click the... Ah hell, I closed it. Hold on, now how do I... there!"

The screen flickered to life, and right there in front of her, as my wife watched groggily, was...

Singer/songwriter Dan Tyminski. Mr. Tyminski fiddled with his camera for a moment and then began to speak.

"Leslie, this is Dan. I just wanted to let you know that," —now looking down at something he had written just out of frame— "your husband loves you very much and wishes you a happy birthday. He also congratulates you, uh, on turning 29 for the 25th time! Haha. Well, okay, I hope your big day is really great, just really happy and healthy, and that you have all your loved ones around you, like Gary here, and your kids. Okay, I guess I'd better get started."

Singing now, he proceeded: "Swing looooowwwww, sweet chaaaaariot..."

My wife looked up from the laptop screen, quizzical.

"Okay, so he's not George Clooney. But he did do Clooney's singing voice in Oh Brother Where Art Thou, and I think you liked that movie, right?"

She cocked her head, sighed, and then nodded. "Yes, Gary, I thought it was a pretty good movie, I guess."

VICTORY! I pumped my fist in the air, elated. I'd done it again.

The words "husband of the year" flitted, unbidden, through the room.