A can-of-worms-opening prompt if there ever was one.
As is well documented on this blog, my least favorite personal
quality defect in myself is people-pleasing. Put that in a test tube with my family’s overwhelming selfishness at “the most wonderful time of the year” (that Amy Grant is full of shit), shake well with a dash of nutmeg and a heaping helping of grandma’s preemptive pout about how I don’t call enough, and you get halls decked with tinsel laced elf venom, string-light explosions, and nerves roasting on an open fire.
My family, and by family I mean parents and sister, jumped on the debt-free bandwagon this year. They’re paying Dave Ramsey to teach them how not to spend. Good for them. Even better for Dave Ramsey.
What does that have to do with me?
If I may quote: “We’re not spending any money this year on Christmas. That Disney trip really set us back! So we (mom and sister) have decided everyone has to make everything homemade this year! Won’t this be fun?”
This is not fun.
I, unlike the rest of the Zirro clan, have not squandered my earnings on mouse ears and fried churros all year. I don’t need Dave Ramsey to teach me how to get out of debt because I am not in debt. I am a writer. I spend nothing except on the occasional notebooks and pens which I acquire for pennies every August during back-to-school specials. (And tequila. I do pay full price for tequila.)
I value my time. As a writer, I do not get paid for this time. YET. That doesn’t mean I value it any less. That doesn’t mean it’s worth giving up, just to homemake a bunch of crap that nobody wants anyway. And to rub salt in my wound, Old Navy has a sale on sweaters today. For 10 bucks a pop, I could be done in five minutes and to hell with all these felt ornaments and scarves made out of Tshirts and beer bottle lid checkerboards.
I hate my family.
I love my family, but I hate them.
Ah, yes. The most wonderful time of the year. Deck the halls, suckers.
I’m dashing to the mall.