Everyone’s Getting a Candle. I’m Tired.

Apparently, it’s time to get ready for the holidays.

I’m still trying to figure out what happened to September.

Wasn’t I just complaining about pumpkins showing up too early? Now the pumpkins are leaving, Santa’s moving in, and somebody wants to know what we’re doing for dinner six weeks from now.

I don’t know what we’re doing for dinner tonight.

And don’t even get me started on the people who already have all their holiday shopping done.

Every year, I picture myself being one of them. Thoughtful gifts. Beautiful wrapping. A little sprig of something tucked under the ribbon.

You know those people.

They have a designated wrapping area.

I have a designated area where I think I put the wrapping paper.

It’s a lovely fantasy. I visit it every November.

Of course, before I can wrap anything, I have to buy something.

And that’s how I end up standing in a store, trying to buy a gift for my oldest friend—someone I’ve known almost my whole life—suddenly unable to remember a single thing she likes.

I want to give her something that says, “I saw this and thought of you.”

But the longer I shop, the less I seem to know about her. Now I’m picking up a candle, sniffing it, and wondering if she’s a “Winter Woodland” kind of person.

I know everything about her marriage, her mother, and her colonoscopy. Somehow, the woodland never came up.

And gifts are only one part of it.

There’s the decorating. The cooking. The coordinating of people who apparently all have other people.

Then there’s the annual attempt to find a date when everyone can get together.

By the time we agree on one, we could have raised a child.

But we do it because we want to see each other. We want the food, the familiar faces, the stories we’ve heard so many times we can correct whoever’s telling them.

Sometimes, I’m the one who needs correcting.

Like the time I told everyone how my brother used to stick Mommy’s bobby pins into the electrical socket.

Which would explain a lot.

Until my dad interrupted.

“Joey… that wasn’t your brother.”

Well…that explains my hair.

There is something fascinating about how quickly a family gathering can put everyone right back in their childhood roles.

You can arrive as a grown woman who runs a business, pays bills, and holds an entire household together.

But one mention of something you did in 1974, and you’re twelve again, defending yourself with a dinner roll in your hand.

This is why I appreciate a little humor during the holidays.

It lets us look at the whole production—the shopping, the expectations, the people we love who know exactly which buttons to push—and laugh.

Because I do love giving someone a gift that makes them say, “Oh my God. That is SO me.”

Or, “That is SO my sister.”

That’s what I had in mind while getting my holiday sweatshirts and mugs ready. Something funny for the friend who gets you. The sister who shares your family history and remembers where the bodies are buried.

Or yourself. You’ve been good all year. And if you haven’t, I appreciate that in a woman.

And if you prefer to deliver your holiday commentary one sip at a time, there’s a mug for that.

So consider this my official announcement: the holiday sweatshirts and mugs are ready.

I am not.

But I did get this part done, and I’m giving myself credit. At this age, I’ve learned that if I wait until everything is finished before I feel good about anything, I’ll be dead.

There will always be another gift to buy. Another thing to do. Somebody who needs an answer about dinner.

I’d like to enjoy a little of the holiday season before I go from “I can’t wait to see everyone” to “You’ve all been fed. Why are you still here?”

So I’m starting with a laugh.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go hide a gift somewhere so safe I’ll find it in July.

❤️ joey