Where We Live: The Grinch that spoiled Christmas

For those of us who still believe in Santa, the internet can be a real Grinch.

For years — YEARS — I have wanted an authentic Irish fisherman’s sweater. It has to be a cable knit turtleneck in a natural color. I love them. I’d look in stores or online. When I’d find one I liked, either the price was too high or I couldn’t find the right size.

Every so often I’d look online. Picture myself in that sweater, but I never pulled the trigger.

This year, I’ve done 99 percent of my shopping online. While visiting sites such as L.L. Bean or other “outdoorsy” shops, again, I looked at the sweaters, and while I’m not one to deny myself all that much, I didn’t see exactly what I wanted, so I again, I passed.

But then whenever I’d get on Facebook, I’d see sponsored ads for hand-knit Irish fisherman’s sweaters from a company in Ireland. They were exactly what I wanted, and I even considered buying the one I wanted, except it was 100 percent wool. You see, I’m allergic to wool. I can wear cashmere, which is from a goat and not a sheep. Wool, however, makes me itch like crazy.

So for as much as I wanted an “authentic” fisherman’s sweater, it would have to be made of cotton, or at least a blend that favored cotton. So much for “authentic.”

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling my husband how I found these gorgeous Irish sweaters and that these ads just kept popping up on my Facebook feed with these beautiful women standing cliffside modeling sweaters I’ve been drooling over for years.

“Too bad I can’t wear them,” I told him.

“What do you mean, you can’t wear them?”

“Wool. I can’t wear wool. It makes me itch like crazy.”

Jim: Blank face.

“You can’t wear wool?”

“Nope.”

The look on his face was a little hard to decipher at first. Then it hit me. The reason I was seeing those ads on my feed, was because he’d used the computer to search for the sweater he knows I’ve been wanting. And so that I’d be really surprised, he had my daughter order it and have it shipped to her house.

Damn internet. Damn Facebook.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ll look at a pair of boots, or a dress, or a set of dishes, and images of these items constantly pop up on my Facebook feed until I’m often seduced into buying whatever it is. I’m getting better about that and not falling under its siren call so much, especially when I think about how creepy it is.

It’s not only creepy, it’s a spoilsport and a Grinch.

The look on Jim’s face when he realized the surprise he’d so carefully chosen for me was ruined broke my heart. Hopefully the joy I expressed when I threw my arms around his neck and danced around the bedroom helped.

Ruined surprise or not, I’m looking forward to opening that present Christmas morning. And if I have to wear a turtleneck under that sweater so it won’t itch, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Now if I can only figure out how to keep the internet from being a big blabbermouth.