Christmas Is Coming: Put Down The Hot Glue Gun

With just 22 days till Christmas, I know what some of you are thinking:

Time to put the finishing touches on those thoughtful handmade gifts that will delight family and friends and save me lots of money.

My advice? Head to Amazon.

Sure, you see yourself sitting by a crackling fire with Christmas music playing softly in the background as you create lasting keepsakes to be treasured by loved ones. The reality is almost always less romantic. Chances are you're going to spend the next three weeks in a wool/glue/clay/photo frenzy. You will stay up late, cursing at hand-fashioned disasters that will leave the recipients speechless. And not in a good way.

Right then. Back to your wine cork coasters. You've been warned.

My first foray into homemade gifts came in my freshman year in high school after I taught myself how to knit. That is still remembered as the "Banana Mitten Christmas." It was the year everyone got bright red hand warmers with 8-inch thumbs.

By the time I got to college, my knitting skills had improved and I decided that my parents - neither of whom had ever seen a ski slope - should have hand-made ski sweaters. I splurged on oiled wool and found an intricate Norwegian design. I spent every night of first semester cross-legged on my dorm room floor, furiously knitting and purling.

On Christmas morning, Mom and Dad seemed genuinely astonished by their matching sweaters.

"We can be on the Andy Williams special next Christmas with these," my father marveled, holding his up for everyone to admire.

One problem. The head holes were so small only a squirrel could get its cranium through the openings. As my parents attempted to don their gaily knit apparel, they were foiled by the presence of their own ears. In a valiant attempt to show his appreciation, Dad managed to yank his on, an act that left fat, red welts on his cheeks.

He wore the sweater exactly once: On Dec. 25, as he sweated profusely through Christmas dinner.

"I can't take the damn thing off, without ripping my earlobes," he hissed to my mother when she asked why he was wearing it indoors.

After college, I moved on to the mind-numbing art of cross-stitch. One year I produced a slew of samplers with folksy "Bless This House" and "There's No Place Like Home" ditties atop a Pennsylvania Dutch motif.

No one - except the Amish - want cross-stitch samplers. Trust me on that one.

Then there was the time I bought watercolors and painted a portrait of the beloved family beagle. I still remember the puzzled looks on my parents' faces as they unwrapped my magnum opus.

"Is that a tan alligator, with spots?" my dad joked.

Over the years I've fashioned paperweights from West Virginia river rocks, painted ceramic Buddhas (don't ask) and baked 47 gingerbread houses in a single week.

Each handmade Christmas ended the same way. The "artist" was in a sleep-deprived coma by the 25th while the recipients were touched, but confused.

This year, I'm shopping. Unless you really can make cute fishing lures out of paper clips and aluminum foil.