No sooner is the last bit of dressing scraped into a Tupperware container and the last dab of whipped cream scraped from the mixing bowl with someone’s finger than Christmas shopping begins.

In the olden days (10 years ago?), people would trudge out to the Big Box stores at midnight to grab all of their Black Friday deals. I, myself, remember standing in line some 15 years ago in bitter cold to purchase a television set at the behest of my husband who, with his son Allen, headed to Chicago to spend the weekend with Bill’s mom. Who says I’m not a good wife?

Other than that occasion, I have never shopped a Black Friday sale. I don’t say that with any particular pride, because more than likely the sales are amazing. My biggest problem is that I hate to shop. Period. My second biggest problem is that as my stomach is digesting the day’s turkey and mashed potatoes, I have no idea what I’m getting anyone. It really doesn’t get any better as the season progresses.

I’ve never been a clever Christmas gifter. Someone needs to put a list right in front of my nose in order for me to know what to buy for them. It’s gotten even more difficult as my grandchildren have gotten older. I don’t know what kind of clothes they wear. I don’t know what they like to read. Lord knows I don’t know what kind of music they enjoy.

Bill is even worse. There will be a knock on the door, and Amazon will have dropped off a package for something Bill ordered. “Seriously?” I’ll ask him. “A month before Christmas, you’re buying yourself (fill in the blank)?”

“I wanted it now,” he will explain.

And, the trouble is, I can’t even get mad at him because I do the exact thing. If I want or need something, I order it. I am Amazon’s best friend.

So, as dull as it seems (and is), last year I gave the grands gift cards. I try to give thought to the store from which I purchase the card. I will try to do that this year once again in an effort to not be perceived as the Grinch.

Let the games begin.