CELEBRATING WITH A COUPLE OF BOOBS

One Size Never Fits All

Christmas shopping was a big development in our relationship

When it comes to gift-giving, my husband Moker is kind of a boob.

Let’s see. The time he decided to buy me a “little black dress,” even though he knew damn well I’m a jeans and T-shirts kinda gal.

Or the time he saw some cookware on sale and gifted it to me. This was a man who had never in his life prepared any type of cuisine beyond a PB&J, unless you count boiling a hot dog, or making a cheese omelet and calling it “omelette du fromage.”

Then there was the time he was bound and determined to acquire a nice sweater for his sister.

We’d been together a couple of months, always a transitional time in any relationship.

It was coming on Christmas, as my Nana and Joni Mitchell would say, and Moker was stumped. He had perfume — White Shoulders — for his mom; golf balls and a funny golf mag for his dad; a college T for his brother.

An appropriate gift for Lil Sis, however, was a bit more problematic. She lived in Wisconsin, so he settled on winter wear. Called his mom for guidance.

“I thought a sweater,” he said via landline. “Wool. Maybe blue, to go with her eyes.”

“That sounds great, sweetie,” Mom concurred. “And she likes crewneck, I think, instead of V-neck. Warmer that way.”

Moker, a man of few words, ended the convo. We made a date to go shopping for sis that weekend.

When in doubt, always make a list.

Knowing Moker’s Scandinavian roots, I wasn’t going to get much more out of him. So I inscribed those meager details in one of my school spirals, then asked a couple of follow-up questions.

Let’s just put it this way: If the man learned he could live forever if he’d just talk a little more, he’d probably choose to die next week.

“I told you. I’m getting her a wool sweater. Blue. It’s cold in Wisconsin.”

“But what about style? What about size?”

“A sweater is a sweater, Brooke. She’s tall. Like you. About your size.”

Had this been the 21st Century, or even the latter stretches of the 20th, I would have insisted he call Mom back for more guidance. But we were already on the road, had never heard of a cell phone, and he wanted to get back before the afternoon football games.

It was more of a smash-and-grab shopping trip.

We visited exactly one department store. I modeled a couple of sweaters, even though I’m allergic to wool and don’t look particularly purty in blue. But the crew necks favored my figure, and I knew Lil Sis, who was my age and impressed her bro had snagged a “younger” woman, would appreciate my input.

Bingo! He even sprung for a gift box and gift-wrapping. I was a little surprised. Remember, Scandinavian. Unless of course these days, when he’s investing in something golf-related.

Joy to the World. Christmas success!

Moker spent that afternoon watching football and wrapping the rest of his gifts. He found a commodious box and took the whole shootin’ match to the post office so his largesse would arrive before Santa did.

Mom loved the perfume, even though she received it from one son or the other, and sometimes both, every year. Dad appreciated the golf balls and laughed at the mag; bro put the T-shirt on as soon as it came out of the box, and, I’m told, didn’t take it off until sometime the following spring. Didn’t get cold in Wisconsin winters, I guess.

I didn’t hear much about Lil Sis’s sweater.

Next summer, I made a trip to Meet the Parents.

Actually, I met the entire fam. Mom, Dad, Bro, Sis, eight gazillion aunts, uncles and cousins. Those Scandinavians don’t have much else to do during those cold, cold Wisconsin winters, I guess.

We arrived in mid-July, the perfect time to introduce someone like me to a place where folks are frozen up the wazoo most of the year. A balmy 80 degrees, puffy cumulus in azure skies.

Moker’s sis and I headed down to the river to meet friends, picnic and swim the next day.

Guess you realize where I’m going with this bodacious tale?

And why Lil Sis had to return her Christmas present.

We gals were attired in the uniform of the day. Swimsuits, Daisy Dukes and Ts. We shucked our shorts and arranged ourselves on the rocks.

The sun was really beating down, so one by one we shed our T-shirts, too. Lil Sis was the last to get out there in the all-together, as my Nana would say, before diving in.

Let’s just say she and I aren’t the same size.

A few days later I told Moker I’d unlocked the Mystery of the Christmas Sweater.

I explained that Lil Sis and I didn’t resemble one another between the waist and the neck.

Moker turned red, then stammered.

“What are you talking about?”

I looked at him a good, long sec. Then reality dawned on him.

“I’m just saying,” I said. “Mother Nature sure put on a show the other day.”

He rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Boys don’t look at their sisters like that.”

And that’s about the size of it, I reckon.