Christmas is here. I’m so excited, it’s ridiculous. For some reason, finding out that Santa Claus doesn’t exist didn’t deter from the magic of the holiday season for me. I still get all watery-eyed when I see a house decked out in lights. I can’t help but pick up wrapped packages and shake them. I’ve managed to fit seven Christmas trees — of varying sizes — in my home. It’s sick really.

This year, the fact that money is tight hasn’t gotten me down a bit. Instead of buying pre-made gifts for loved ones, I’ve resorted to sharing my talents. I’ve done some drawings and paintings for family members, offered up my husband’s photography skills to others and baked cookies and other goodies for the rest. I had to make sure I was able to get all of this done though, so there was some preparation needed. Before any baking could begin, I checked the List and found someone to service our oven — I can’t have my good-baking name marred by burnt sugar cookies!

A war's been brewing in my house over the last eight months: It's man vs. beast … cheapball vs. hairball … roommate vs. my dog.

My recent troubles started a few months back when my dog chewed my roommate's cigarettes. He left them soggy, many of them broken. You could say this incident was the Bleeding Kansas before the full-blown Civil War.

My dog seems to chew on things. Strange things. Packs of cigarettes. Wallets. Screwdrivers. Money. He loves money. Not change but cash. It's disappointing and expensive. He took out a couch cushion and two matching pillows last week. And guess who owns the couch?

So I wasn't surprised when my 'roomie' was in a panic the other day. The casualty? Another pack of cigarettes. Let me tell you, don't mess with a smoker and their fix. It can get scary. And this time Sherman tore apart each stick of tobacco — that left nothing for my roommate, who wasn't happy.

But I was scared. It appeared like my dog ate 15 cigarettes. Do you know what they put in those things? I watched over the little guy like a hawk, waiting for any sign of poisoning: gagging, choking, puking, anything.

I hit the Internet. Did you know that nicotine is used as a pesticide? It can cause seizures, problems breathing, vomiting and even death if ingested in the right amounts. Three or four cigarettes worth of nicotine can kill an adult, if absorbed directly into the bloodstream at once. Pretty scary.

I can report that my dog is fine. He seemed to rip them apart, rather than eat the tobacco. I doubt he even ingested half a cigarette. The only problems I noticed was bad gas and a irritated roommate, and that's normal. And the roommate won't let me forget.

This initial skirmish is my home's Fort Sumter. I see nothing but bloodshed on the horizon.

Ladies and gentleman, the war has begun. And a house divided against itself cannot stand.

Along my route to work, there's a house with a yard full of holiday cheer — of the inflatable variety. I've got to say: I gawk at it every morning. Personally, I'm no fan of these inflatable giants as lawn decor. I guess I'm just more of a traditionalist — wire your house with an abundance of twinkly lights so it can be seen from the moon — Clark Griswold style.

What do you think?

So, I'm excited about the holiday season. It does seem like the actual holiday is taking forever to get here, however. Even though I know I should be more of a grown-up, I can't help but be enthusiastic. I'm dreaming of my grandmother's homemade fudge and divinity of ambrosia … and chocolate pie and dressing and turkey and ... and …And who cares about the presents??

One thing I do know is that I love decorating. My favorite place during the holidays is my grandparents' house, dripping with lights and tinsel. It's just not so easy for them to decorate nowadays. They are getting up there in age, and will never admit they can't do something — even at age 87. But, it's tough climbing ladders, toting things, positioning those eight tiny reindeer and aligning those life-size candy canes down the front walk.

And what to my surprise did I spy on the List while doing research for a podcast? There are people who will actually come out and DECORATE FOR YOU! How  incredibly fun! I want that job. Can you imagine getting up in the morning and your job is to be a veritable Clark Griswold? Rad!

Happy holidays!

It's been 30 days since I bid my trusty truck farewell as she made her way to that Junkyard in the Sky. Although I've moved through each phase of the grieving process and finally accepted I must buy a new truck, I've recently been awash with a new feeling: frustration.

I've test-driven vehicles, set up Internet searches and purchased online title history services. I've shaken hands with too many dealership sales reps to remember and my coat pockets are about to burst with their business cards. But the question remains: Why am I not driving a new-to-me used vehicle yet?

I'm too picky. I take the consumer savvy that most Angie's List members practice to its ultimate high when purchasing a vehicle. I quiz the dealer or owner about every aspect of the vehicle's history including whether or not they've ever eaten french fries in it. I go for multiple test drives, putting the prospective vehicle through every condition imaginable and feasible. I even have my family friend, a former mechanic, thoroughly inspect anything I'm considering purchasing. I refuse to be suckered into overpaying, so I obsessively research retail values. One of my greatest fears in life (other than clowns) is buying a vehicle that later I'll regret. I refuse to buy something I'm only lukewarm about, and I won't pay more than a certain amount per month. It took six months of searching to find my last vehicle, and much to my wife's dismay (she's unwillingly sharing her car for the time being), it looks like it may take that long again. My mantra is 'I'd rather be patient than foolish.'

Thankfully, my List membership has helped guide me along the way. If I see a vehicle I like at a dealer, I check their ratings to see what other members say about their experiences. Being well informed is the only way to buy a car, new or used, and Angie's List is just another way to stay on top of my car-buying game.

Three-and-a-half years ago, I interned at Indianapolis Monthly magazine, assisting with tough jobs such as restaurant reviews and searches for the best “cheap eats” in town — an assignment oh-so difficult for a college student.

For the September 2006 issue, they put me on an editorial quest to find the best Indiana-grown popcorn judged by taste, appearance and 'popability.' This was an exciting assignment, yes, but there was one minor hang-up: I hated popcorn.

Nevertheless, I researched where every popcorn brand grows its corn, scoured grocery stores and super marts for Indiana-grown popcorn in butter and light varieties, and popped dozens of bags of popcorn for an in-house taste test. After all that, I can say I finally started to like — and even appreciate — the taste of those airy cornballs.

So now, three internships and a diploma later, I’m at Angie’s List Magazine, occasionally taste-testing the fresh-daily buttery snack from the company’s carnival-like popcorn machine located in the Firehouse. My tastebuds are now seasoned professionals at grading popcorn’s taste, appearance and 'popability,' and I give Angie’s List popcorn an “A.” Now, if only that grade counted for something on the List.