Ten Days to Go

I loathe Christmas and everything about it, except the food, the booze, and the time off work. The visiting with friends and family is kind of cool, too. And the music is all right. If it's good (meaning, written prior to about, oh, 1950 and not performed by anyone that was born after me. Generally speaking).

In short, I hate the commercialism, the need to give great, grand gifts to everyone, as if some stupid snow village encased in a globe tells my veterinary assistant how much I care. Or that a hokey tree ornament was thoughtfully chosen for me by my bartender(s), when every one else shining the bar with their sleeves that night got one as well.

Cynical much? Not me.

Thankfully, my parents and siblings opted out of this nonsense years ago, and I've managed to convince my girly pals that I'd rather spend time with them instead of shopping for stuff. It's a huge relief.

But, now there are the small people. And, small people love Christmas. I do hate disappointing them, when they are so easily pleased and are so generous with their smiles and hugs. There's something about the phrase, "Auntie Misstea, I love you" that makes me want to make sure that the universe farts rainbows just for them.

So, I sucked it up last night, and went to a book shop. You'd think that 11 days before Christmas, it would be a gong show, but apparently not at 5:30 on a Tuesday. Good planning on my part, for a change. And, I must admit, the 40 minutes I spent playing around in the children's section was rather fun. There's some cool stuff out there. From now on, I will be the Auntie that gives books and knitted things.

So, with that in mind, I got home from work tonight and spread out all the unallocated knitted things on the sofa:

I need eight kid-sized somethings. I have them. Problem is, I have no idea if the sock to foot size is at all reasonable. I'll ask LSG (because LSG knows everything) and then, it might be a little insane around here. I can't believe I'm doing this.

My heart is still two sizes too small, just for the record. And Santa is creepy. He breaks into your house, FFS.