It’s a time of peace on earth, goodwill to men, even though threats of war abound, Congressional Democrats hate Congressional Republicans and vice versa, and Donald Trump hates Obama, O’Donnell and every single candidate who opted out of his debate.

First and foremost, Christmas is a time for filling the needs of others and not focusing on oneself. In that spirit, I offer my gift-wish list to family members probably agonizing over what to get me. Again, it’s all about giving at this joyous time of year.

I do need a new microwave oven, since mine is more than 20 years old and about 700 watts short of the 1,200 most nuking instructions are based on. Oh, my Sharp brand was a good one in its day, but like Newt Gingrich’s wives, newer models are always preferable.

I have fond memories of the purchase from my good buddy Scotty. His wonderful mother Bev, who passed at about this time last year after a tenacious, 30-year battle with cancer, won the Sharp in a raffle. With no need for another microwave, she gave it to her son who she constantly gifted, who also had no need for one. Knowing I’d never owned a microwave, Scotty sold me his free microwave for $70. Ah that Scotty, every day is Christmas for that generous lug.

So I really need a good microwave, and during this fuzzy season of goodwill, you sure don’t want to scrimp on wattage. I think most good people would agree that seeing the joy in someone else’s eyes when giving far outweighs any personal satisfaction of receiving.

I also want a new thermos, one of those big, expensive, stainless-steel Stanleys. I lost mine several years ago when I climbed a ladder onto a townhouse porch roof, where a second ladder leading to the scary second-story was anchored by a chunk of 2x4 I had secured. With both hands filled with nail gun, water jug, thermos and full coffee cup, the first ladder resting on a wet tarp began inching out from under me.

It was either slide down with the ladder, landing belly-first but with all my belongings securely held in my broken fingers, or drop everything to swiftly seek refuge. I chose the latter rather than the ladder and deftly reached up and snagged that anchor board with my fingertips. I dangled in that desperate, embarrassing predicament for over five minutes until a city worker spotted me, pulled over and righted the ladder.

I was saved, but the Stanley sustained serious damage, no longer capable of retaining the piping hotness of my coffee. Since my budget was as crimped as my “unbreakable” thermos, I purchased a cheaper, inferior one that doesn’t even keep java hot overnight.

Even worse, my new “Thermax” lid has a maddening, screeching sound upon release. That’s fine on a roof or at home, but at the time, I was attending an addiction therapy group called Celebrate Recovery, where after a meal and service, the guys and gals met in separate rooms to share triumphs and confessions.

One evening a group leader was relating a heartfelt and emotional story when my coffee craving peaked. As I began to slowly twist (like pulling off a Band-Aid, slow doesn’t work) my new thermos lid, everyone’s attention was diverted to the obnoxious screech. Dick didn’t miss a beat even when my second noisy turn drew more glances and had my buddy Al Durham squirming and shaking from barely-stifled laughter.

Finally on the fourth slow twist, Brandon Wasserburger, normally an extremely patient and mellow fellow, suddenly lit me up. “Come on; knock it off, Blough! I’d really like to hear Dick’s story!” he bellowed, as I opportunistically administered the final twist of the troublemaking thermos lid.

So yes, at this time of blessed giving and goodwill, I’d definitely like a good, new thermos. Also, a bunch of Tupperware, since the set my sister-in-law Shelia gave me last year now has no lids. They haven’t left my house, yet few of the lids in my cupboard fit the 20-some containers. I can’t explain it, but I also have four left-handed gloves with no righties in my truck, and God only knows where the mates to my five dress socks went.

Beyond any doubt, this is a time of year when reaching out to others brings inner joy and fulfillment. So on top of those material things I mentioned – oh, I almost forgot, I need a new air compressor too — I mostly want for peace on earth and all that blah, blah, blah stuff. And before I forget, I wear a medium in most shirts with a jeans size of 33x33.

So with my condensed list here and a little imagination on their part, my family has little excuse for not giving until it hurts this year. After all, there is no “I” in Christmas.