Want / Need / Wear / Read -- A plain and simple gifting mantra.

A warm welcome to my jan: plain and simple devotees as well as to those who may have stumbled upon my blog by accident. There are no coincidences. The Great and Powerful World Wide Web led you here for a reason. Come in. Sit down. Get cozy.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

As we count down the days, I hope you will make an effort to escape the short-fused shopping crowds, stir up a batch of hot cocoa, surround yourself with your favorite people, fire up the classic Charlie Brown Christmas DVD, bask in the glow of the tree, and ponder the true reason for the season.

I beg of you.

Please.

Take a lesson from me.

You see, somewhere around thirty years ago, I unwittingly sold my soul to Martha Stewart, giving her the power to spoil for me what should be the hap, hap, happiest season of all.

The domestic maven brainwashed me [and zillions of others] into believing I wasn't worthy of the homemaker slash wife slash mommy title without attempting every idea nestled between the covers of her monthly magazine. I dutifully displayed Entertaining on my hand stenciled checkerboard coffee table, redecorated two homes entirely around her line of trademarked paint colors, slumbered between her highest quality thread counts and adopted her cookbook as my brunch building blueprint.

Convinced that the familiar mish mash of brightly colored and curly cued piles were passé, one December found me distributing dozens of brown paper packages tied up with strings. A year later our gifts were transformed within black and white newspaper print and red ribbons.

Every. Single. One.

And they did look kinda, sorta cool and classy and they no doubt garnered oodles of oohs, aahs, and refrains of, "Ohmygoodness! Why, that's just too gosh darn pretty to open!"

But there was a price to be paid.

I trimmed soap opera caliber Dickinsonian trees. I presented fabric lined baskets of home preserved jellies, jams and miniature bread loaves. I jute-tied handcrafted oatmeal soap bars within hand loomed cotton wash cloths, stitched up pair after pair of novelty-printed boxers, fleece pajama bottoms and sweat suits. My nieces received adorable calico dresses, complete with coordinating collars, pinafores and petticoats. I cross-stitched samplers and monogrammed towels for friends, knitted slews of scarves for coworkers, appliqued my son's primitive artwork onto pillows for his grandparents and painted, glazed and kiln-prepped Old World Saint Nicholas figurines every Tuesday night.

I decorated dozens [upon dozens, upon dozens, upon dozens] of sugar cutouts and doily lined plates of carefully hand dipped chocolates. I hosted old-fashioned cookie exchanges, ladling mulled cider and hot vanilla from crocks and sending each of my guests home sporting their very own parting gift of a handmade holiday apron. I hand labeled mason jars of chai tea and "microbrewed" Irish Cream liqueur, sealing the pretty recycled bottles with corks and colored wax. I bought a booth at our hospital's annual Holiday Bazaar, handing over hundreds of microwavable field corn-filled heating pads.

I strung miles of dually purposed garlands of popcorn, cranberries and dental floss, allowing our tree to service hungry birds as it patiently awaited curbside collection. I sent scores of greeting cards, tucking cheerfully hand-written notes and customary school photographs within envelopes neatly addressed in calligraphical script.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

Virtually every recipient on my list could expect something, "Created especially for you by Janet H*****," as my personalized sew-in labels would attest. These labors of love were more often than not accomplished in the wee hours of the morning, after my very, very busy toddler had finally konked out and the capital budget proposal for each of my departments was neatly filed in my briefcase for the next-day's presentation to the board of directors.

Yep.

 I guzzled that mauve-shaded, It's a Good Thing, kool-aid by the gilded vintage bucketful.

My Sweet Lord!

That version of me doesn't sound very free-spirited or fun-loving, does it???

Nope.

That weary lady was more accurately described as a one hundred and ten pound, soaking wet, nervous wreck.

And somebody forgot to present her with her hard-earned trophy.

Now ...

My agenda for taking you along on that ridiculous, albeit non-fictional, journey down memory lane was never intended to promote Martha's teachings, techniques or torture. Nor was it an opportunity to brag or an attempt to make you feel inadequate.

Au contraire!

I told you that story to tell you this story:

The litany of  martyrdom represented above only served to stress me to the point of utter exhaustion, underlying resentment and sheer dread as each holiday season approached, an emotion exponentially compounded with each passing year. The real meaning of Christmas for me became lost amid the chaos commencing the day after Thanksgiving and only ending with the homily delivered at Christmas Eve midnight Mass.

Sadly, Martha's eager prodigy evolved into a grumbling, Grinch-esque woman with the inability to enter a department store without real threat of hurling should Andy Williams' These Are a Few of My Favorite Things stream overhead. Despite years of debriefing, I remain to this day absolutely incapable of sitting in front of The Hallmark Channel and the only holiday inspired music you will hear playing inside my home is the classic Elvis Christmas Album. Just because he's Elvis.

And I go through the motions.

And I look forward to the twenty-sixth of December.

Every. Single. Year.

I elected to take full advantage of this arena to issue an important and timely warning to my blog followers, the young moms and budding homemakers especially:

PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT [your] HOME!

Trust me when I assure you your recipients will soon forget those picture perfect stacks of white butcher paper covered boxes and precise teal ribbons.

Heed the free advice of an older and wiser white haired former SuperSingleMom:  Slow down, scale back, simplify and savor the season.

If you are the type [like me] who requires a written guideline, I encourage you to follow this Pinterest popularized gift giving edict, reminiscent of a much less materialistic era.

Give each of your children four items:

Something they Want; Something they Need;  Something to Wear; Something to Read.

My ten-year-old great-nephew accepted his mom's threats to adopt that sensible mantra at face value --  and the dude was actually pretty cool with the concept.

If only someone had shared that philosophy with me about three decades earlier.

You. Are. Welcome.

So, I encourage you to create priceless memories with your family and friends. Give your children the gift of lighthearted laughter. Sing off-key carols while molding molasses popcorn balls or placing the perfectly imperfect finishing touches on the gingerbread house you created.  

Together.

As a family.

That's the image I carry in my heart of my own childhood.

And I would give anything at all for that to be the way my son remembers his.

But no matter how hard you try, you will never get those years back.

Plain. And. Simple.

Sooooooo  ...

This Friday evening will mark a brand new tradition at my house, as I play hostess with the mostest to my two oldest greats, Caleb and Shane, for a stress free, fun filled, no rules, anything goes:

 Great Aunt Jan's First Annual Christmas Shopping Slash Sleepover Extravaganza!!!

And we shall weave our way through the toy aisles of Walmart, singing nonsensical Alvin and the Chipmunks songs. We shall cruise in the clown car with the express purpose of appreciating the sights and the sounds of our town's most ambitious outdoor decorators. We shall snack on everything from raw cookie dough to gobs of frosting to festively shaped pancakes. We shall watch movies and play BINGO all night long and sleep all day, if that's what we feel like doing. Just because we can.

And I absolutely and positively cannot wait!!!

I wonder if the boys will notice the absence of a traditional Christmas tree in my new little home. The three giant individually themed trees I showcased in my old Victorian have become further and further downsized to the tiny, shiny, jingly, silvery tabletop trio I unearthed on a recent thrifting expedition with two of my most favorite ladies.

I wish each of my blog followers a Blessed Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyful Kwaanza --  or whatever holiday it is that you happen to observe.

And if you choose not to celebrate any of these, I wish you peaceandlove.

Plain. And. Simple.