There was an amused look on my husband’s face as he opened another Christmas card.  

“What?” I asked.  

He was smiling as he taped the card to the doorframe in our hallway, where he’d displayed several others.  

“Look how loved we are,” he said. “Our newspaper carriers both sent us cards. Our trash guys. Our insurance agent. Even the guy who cut our grass at the old house.”  

“People sure are friendly,” I said. “Used to be no one but relatives sent cards.”  

“Nice to know they care and are thinking about us,” he said.  

“Makes me feel kinda guilty for not sending out cards,” said I.  

I used to do cards. Came up with my own design every year. Then I had a few rough years that I skipped, and now I guess I’m just out of the habit.   

We live in South Charleston, which has the best trash service of any place I’ve ever lived. Three times a week, they’re here without fail. They’re fast and efficient, and they don’t leave stuff scattered all over the streets and yards like I’ve seen other places.  And not only that, but they care enough to send us a CARD.  

Our Gazette carrier is every subscriber’s dream. The paper–always sealed in plastic if there’s even a slight chance of rain–delivered right to our door, placed directly under the storm door so we don’t even have to step out onto the mat. This carrier obviously cares, so I guess it shouldn’t be all that surprising that they also cared enough to send a card. What IS surprising is that we also got a card from our Daily Mail carrier. It’s not the card itself that’s surprising, but that the card actually made it onto our porch instead of being slung halfway down the driveway or stuck in the ivy, where the Daily Mail is usually delivered.  

But it wasn’t until we received a Christmas card from FourFingers, our apparently forgetful former dog groomer-the one who forbad us from ever again bringing a conscious Furry Murry anywhere near his shop-that I began to feel I was missing something. That there was some common denominator beyond our address. It was like they were trying to tell us something beyond the politically correct command that we have “Happy Holidays!”  

And then, there it was. The answer I sought. Like manna from heaven. Well, more like manna-lite. It came in the form of an Emily Post representative on the set of the Today Show. She was there to advise viewers about who deserves a holiday tip and what amounts they should receive.  

I quickly realized the professions that warrant a holiday tip include pretty much everyone except, well, me.

And if I followed this expert’s recommendations on the proper tip amounts, I’d be doling out more than I make in a month. Or two.  

Who sets these guidelines? And how much do I have to tip them to get on this list?  

“People should see it as an opportunity, not an obligation,” said Ms. Post.  

I guess that kinda depends on how you define “opportunity.” Not tipping the lawn guy could give you the opportunity to meet neighborhood teens as you beg them to take on your yard.  Not tipping your stylist could give you the opportunity to scare small children and make dogs nervous.    Not tipping your webmaster could result in

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