No V-Necks Need Apply

Rita's favorite season is fast approaching. This weekend she's gone headfirst into her HSN/QVC browsing mode. Sunday Morning on CBS? Hmmmmph. I'm blogging to the sounds of some bubble-head doing her best to sell Rita a pressure cooker.

Seriously. It's like crack to her. And what's even odder -- SHE HATES TO SHOP.

I, of course, adore shopping. Just not via the tube.

I particularly like to gift those I love (and seek to dress in a style of my choosing) with warm, fuzzy, stylish sweaters.

Lands End and Eddie Bauer holiday catalogs send me over the edge.

A snazzy argyle. A fine cashmere. A thick, chunky, handknit import from the British Isles.

One of my favorite post-Holiday shopping activities is to peruse clearance tables piled high with men's sweaters. I have several lovely steals from the local Gap outlet that I wear as a coat until 'real' winter arrives.

So you can imagine my reaction the first time I presented Rita with one of my bargain finds for herself -- a lovely V-Neck shetland in a fabulous soft gray green.

She didn't shriek or run away -- but it was a decidedly mommie dearest decree -- no v-necks. Ever.

That almost ended the relationship before it began.

But I don't give up.

Rita will be the first to tell you I'm a strong believer in assimilation.

Each and every Fall when the catalogs start arriving I try again.

"Isn't it lovely? It's a shallow v, not really noticeable."

"Well, with a turtleneck under it it's not really a v-neck."

*sigh*

Don't Let the Beast Get You Down.

It's raining. I'm PMSing. And I was craving roast beef.

(Sorry vegetarians. I tried it in the 80s, it didn't take.)

All I wanted to do today was tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves and put the ridiculous number of kitchen tools I've accumulated to use. Is that really asking so much?

But no. I forgot to take the beef out of the freezer in time to thaw last night. So much for domestic therapy. I've been bitchy and restless all day.

Yes, I know that's giving a hunk of beef way too much power. But it's either that or give the season too much power over me.

This blogs owner and I couldn't be more different in that regard. She's been known to sing carols in July, and yes, that was her skipping down the aisle at Macy's yesterday when a certain tune came across the store speaker.

I struggle to put on a brave face throughout the holiday month. By January 2, I'm more than over it. And this isn't a mid-life moment I'm having.

It is, I suspect, an only child moment.

When I was a kid we always went to my grandparents' house for Christmas. It wasn't the promise of a lovely drive south along I-75 that got us moving at sunrise on X-mas eve -- it was the need to surround the only child with three, four, six or more cousins. And I loved every moment of it. Going home a day or so after Christmas I'd sit in the back seat, leaf through a book and sigh.

The older I got the louder the sighs, the bigger the pile of books. It became simpler just to keep the surly kid home and invite the local relatives over for dinner.

In high school I formed a support system of friends, who, looking back, I realize were always around on Christmas Eve, even Christmas Day, because they were rebelling against having to split their holiday between divorced parents.

In college I worked retail and spent my day off sleeping. (Except for the year I came out and had HIVES at Christmas... but that's another post.)

Settled for several years in a steady relationship, my home with my ex became a stop on the holiday tour for both our families. I liked the entertaining itself more than the forced family fun. Rita would never believe it, but I spent days obsessing about where the stockings were hung and creating a unique centerpiece for the buffet table.

This year, like the last couple, I'm navigating the holiday season best I can. I'm tempering Rita's joy with the occasional bah humbug. I've finished shopping. I'll eventually crack open a bottle of cheap wine and wrap the presents.

And I'll have my roast beast. For breakfast. Tomorrow.