Don't bother me I'm writing

WARNING: The following post is a rant. Do not take it personally. I love you dearly, my dearly beloveds. I love making gifts -- and I enjoyed making yours, in particular. May your homes be filled with warmth and apple cinnamon spice. Bless you. It's only Dec. 1, but it feels like Christmas Eve. Parties, crafts, shopping and all of the normal day-to-day chaos -- running after two small children, nagging my husband, cursing my mother's email about the top seven "superfoods" guaranteed to keep you bright and sparkly until the FDA labels them carcinogenic and suggests we eat cardboard. I'm a bit of a party poop this evening, because it's that time of year when I dig out my artist's cap and get busy making Christmas presents for my dearly beloveds, who I'd happily shop for if I had any money. I hear folks complain about capitalism and useless merchandise and corporate monsters and blah, blah, blah. The alternative -- homemade Christmas -- is a pai...

Husbands and wives kill each other over money and other little things like sex and kids and the division of household labor. It got me thinking that perhaps Jerod and I have been looking at our financial struggles all wrong. There's little to be gained should one of us dismember the other -- some peace and quiet maybe. Beyond that there's debt, homework, dirty diapers, tantrums and tattle tailing, none of which any sane person wants to deal with alone. As long as we're poor the chances that Jerod or I will meet a suspicious end are negligible. The holidays put me on this train of thought, because Christmas time has set the stage for many a knock-down-drag out in our household. Take our first Christmas as a marital unit. A wife might expect something special under the tree -- a sentimental, thoughtful gift -- to remind her for years to come of that first magic Christmas she spent with her husband.  My husband returned from Wal-Mart that year with his broth...