Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Christmas vs Christmas

In-law Christmas: My in-laws celebrate Christmas, like any good Germans, on Christmas Eve.
Mom Christmas: Christmas Day is the day we spend at my mom's.

The S_________ family Christmas is a wild carnival ride of chaos.
My family Christmas is full of  peace and goodwill toward men.

The in-laws tear simultaneously rip into presents  and throw paper in the general direction of folded black garbage bags. 
My family delicately extracts gifts from festive easy-to-open gift bags.

I try not to talk at the in-laws, because I would be hoarse the next day from shouting over all the in-laws in a vain attempt to communicate.
You can hear the snow melting at my moms.

The "difficult" relative is not in attendance at my in-laws.
The "difficult" relative is not in attendance at my moms.

The family table at the S_______ house is where they discuss gallbladder, bowel, and problems with breaking wind. Passing gas.

Karen: "Farting!"

My sister-in-law loves that term, because it makes my husband scream and clutch his head.

"Gaaaaahhhhh! No! We don't say that word!"

"What word? Fart?" she will giggle.

This begins a looooonnnngggg conversation about Karen's gaseousness. Not only does she discuss her gas, she belches openly at the table. I admit, when I first married the husband and felt free enough to belch in front of him, it was quite entertaining and made me laugh and clap my hands. I. Was. Twenty. Three. Karen is forty-seven. After a few Christmas belches, Gary complained and Karen said, "No way to stop it. If I eat, I just belch."

I tried to think of a nice way to say what I was thinking. I said, "Perhaps that's because you swallow air, because you often talk while you are eating." (I often have the urge to clap my hands over Gary's relatives mouths at dinner, or say hateful little things like "I'm sorry, I can't hear you until you swallow your food.") Karen looked puzzled. "I don't talk that much when I'm eating" she said, while the chicken noodles slid to the edge of her teeth and almost escaped.
Contrast this with the next day at Mom's - everyone chewed, swallowed, then spoke. I think there may have been some dabbing at the corners of the mouth with napkins, even.

At the S______s, I had the good fortune to have a cold, so I had an excuse to not infect the family and not get too close to them. I sat at the edge of the Christmas tornado and was not swept in. There is always a chaos storm at the S_______s, even if there is no real chaos. One birthday I was late because I had not paid attention and passed my exit, then noticed my mistake three miles later at the intersection of 367 and 270. I called Gary, who left the table and said to me on the phone - "You passed the exit? 367 and 270?" The in-laws overheard this and Sandy screamed, "She passed out! She was in a car accident! She's at the hospital at 367 and 270!" Much chaos, until Gary got off the phone and was surprised to find I had apparently interrupted my trauma surgery to call and say I would be delayed. I am surprised my blood pressure wasn't 367 over 270.
At Mom's, there is no tornado. All is calm, all is bright, crickets chirp. Mom even commented this year that some might even find it boring.

A few years ago, Karen dictated who would open what present and when, to minimize the fact I have one-third the presents everyone else has. (Gary began calling her "Ms Streisand" because she was directing Christmas. "Which hand should I use to open the next gift, Ms. Streisand?" This year when she started controlling me I called her the Christmas Nazi and she backed off, so we all opened at our own free will.) I really don't mind having few presents, because to this family, it's not the thought that counts, it's the sale price. If it is on sale any time during the year, they buy it for Christmas. First Christmas I was there they gave me deodorant trash bags and hairspray. Coming from a family where a gift is a reflection of your interests, I was concerned that my trash smelled. No, they said, surprised, they are pink trash bags. They are cute. And they were on sale.

I did get a bright blue sweater, a CD I had expressly told them I have, and a book on Fung Shui, which I am almost certain I have mocked in their presence. (However, I do always leave the toilet lid up since I can use the excuse that it gives the Chi a way to escape the bathroom.) Gary got shirts that actually fit him. Karen usually buys him clothing she thinks will fit him, which is why he got a pair of jogging pants last year that he was able to pull up over his head.

[An aside: I know I am being exceedingly ungrateful and critical of the in-laws, and I am comforted in the knowledge that that they would not be insulted. For example, once I was at a function for their family and referred to myself as "socially retarded" in front of a young woman I thought was simply heard of hearing. That was why she spoke so slowly. And why she didn't seem to comprehend what was going on around her. They were very nice and exclaimed "oh, don't say retarded" (followed by great eye-rollings toward the heard-of-hearing - oh, sorry, retarded girl) until I figured out my faux pas. No one was offended.]

Those were the gifts from Karen and Mr. Wonderful, while the elder S______s made life simple and handed each of us a check. I have gotten used to the awkward "Thank you for the check, you are too kind, giving me money like this," and I was reciting it when this year the awkward  thank you conversation was interrupted by Wilma complaining that Ken had only given each of us half of what they had agreed on. Then they bickered over the amount while we stood about embarrassed. Well, Mr. Wonderful and I stood about embarrassed, Karen and Gary weighed in on what should be distributed. (Gary: "No! No more money! Take it back!" Karen: "He don't know! Give us more!") Ken eventually passed out an extra set of checks for an additional amount but signed Wilma's name to them as a protest.

I did ask Mom for a breathalyzer but she balked at that. (I liked Libby's suggestion that I ask her for condoms as an alternative.) Okay, granted, Mom gave money, but she gave cash. I think next year we should play dominoes for a pot of money. I think the family dynamics would be interesting. Would I take money graciously if I won it? Would Gary throw the match? Would Mom pay more attention to the score-keeping?

One thing we don't have at either Christmas is children running underfoot, since the only kids in the family are Muslims. The holidays are not really over until Arzaana-fay and Arhan-fay have had their birthdays. That's next week. We are giving Arhan-fay cash - but, hey, no, don't say anything yet - that's because he is poor. He is a po' brown Muslim child (well, twenty-one) and he will never be self-sufficient because he is an activist. I have already bought Arzaana-fay every black article of clothing Dillard's Junior department sells. We shall see how it goes next week.

I Got Blisters on Me Fingers

Okay, Gary and I got each other joint Christmas presents. I got us an electric guitar to share. I was delighted when he got home,  grabbed it, and promptly discovered his big fat hammy fingers are not suited for fitting between the frets. First I tuned our - well, my - guitar with a tremendous electric tuner that lights up when you are in tune. Then we had to go to Walmart. I'm sure those of you with guitars know why we had to go. Tuning ones guitar makes the strings break, especially if one is trying to reach a note that is actually five notes down, not up, the scale.

Then Gary had a work emergency, so I concentrated on Ding, the guitar. Ding is a used dark red Epiphone Special with a charming (and economical) ding on the front. It occurred to me later that "Chip" might have been a better name, but he's more of a Ding than a Chip. I wound the new strings, got Ding in tune, plugged Ol' Ding in, and printed the tabs for the easiest Barenaked Ladies song ("Maybe Katie"): D. E. A.  Easy! I was thrown off for a few hours because I had printed out the piano chords and was searching for A major. But by the time Gary got back I could play all three chords.

Of course, I couldn't play them in sequence. We cranked up the CD player and I went through it once playing all the As, then again rocking out on the Ds, then a big finale of just the Es. ("raaahhhhhahah! rahhhh!!!" - crowd noises.)

One the other hand, it seems Gary has decided to ignore my decline into early adolescence and prepare for my eventual slide into early childhood. He bought us bikes for Christmas. His and Hers Schwinns. I rode mine on the Target parking lot and found that indeed, you never do forget how to ride a bike. This is not good if your unforgettable bike is a one-speed with coaster brakes , and your new bike is a ten-speed with handle brakes. (What the hell? When did they change that?) Pedaling backwards is now very ineffective. I know I'll be about to crash and my instincts will take over and I'll start pedaling backwards.

Next: Binkies.

Spam skit

Yup, the tea was fun this year. Perhaps because of the red and green jello shots? Oh, and here is the link to the SNAKES I got:

http://www.orientaltrading.com/otcweb/application?namespace=browse&origin=searchMain.jsp&event=link.itemDetails&demandPrefix=12&sku=25/6900&mode=Searching&searchDestinationJSP=/search/searchMain.jsp&erec=6&D=snake&No=12&Dx=mode%252bmatchallpartial&Ntx=mode%252bmatchallpartial&Ntt=snake&N=0&Ntk=all

Enjoy the Spam skit!

Eeewwwww (shudder)

Gary and I have opposing views on illness, pain, and the like. I was taught by Mr. and Mrs. Stoic to bite your lip and show no pain, even if you have cancer or polio. Gary was taught by his parents that if you have a fever you get the TV in your room and ice cream for dinner because, I swear Wilma said this, "it lowers your fever from the inside." (She also FED him Vicks.)

So, I admit I have little sympathy and patience when Gary is in pain. When he is in moderate pain he yelps and whines about it so much I can't summon up my sympathy before I find myself rolling my eyes. When he is in great pain I laugh compulsively. It's a nervous laugh; I can't help it. Besides, if you saw him when he's in great pain you would see why it's so funny. He hops around and curses and waves his arms. Once he burned his fingers on a pop-tart and I thought I would wet my pants. And of course that just makes him hop and curse more, and then I run out of the room and laugh and laugh.

So, I'm an unsympathetic bitch but I'm working on it. Yesterday at work he was leaning on a lever door handle, slipped off, and tried to grab the wood door frame. He didn't fall, but that was because he was impaled by a splinter under the fingernail.

(Everyone, all together, say the Title of this post. There now.)

The splinter, he said, broke off under his middle nail. He tried to pull it out himself but of course, a splinter under the nail is torture. Quite literally. He couldn't stand to touch his finger. But he finished out the day at work.

I got home late and found him watching tv and waiting for me to take him to the emergency room. This wasn't like the semi-broken wrist he had over Thanksgiving, he actually wanted to deal with this ailment.

There was no waiting in the ER (because we were the only ones there) and we were shepherded back to the curtained bed area. I suppose this would not be the Trauma Area. However, our PA did his best to assure Gary that a splinter, especially a wood splinter, needs emergency treatment. Wood, being organic, doesn't show up on an x-Ray and is not ignored by the body, like metal; instead the wood is treated like an organic invader and there is a high risk of infection.

I asked if those mentally ill people  who eat surgical instruments and bicycles ever eat trees and shrubs. The PA said he didn't know of any, but perhaps that was because their x-Rays don't show anything.

Then he took a needle (fine), stuck it into Gary's finger by the knuckle (fine) and started rocking the needle back and forth like he was on a rowing machine. (Not Fine.) Of course, I started to laugh.  (Really, I can't help it. ) Then I looked at Gary and he was studiously not showing any pain. Perhaps he had passed out.

Finally the PA stopped stirring the needle around in Gary's finger flesh. For some odd reason, he had to perform the same procedure to the ring finger too. I didn't ask why, I just gripped myself and tried not to laugh. If I started to laugh, I just looked at Gary who was brave and not hopping and cursing.

The drug took half an hour to process, so we had a good time waiting. I would threaten to touch Gary's finger, and he would say "don't touch my finger" very calmly. Like a different man. The PA came in and gradually started touching the sacred finger until Gary was convinced his nerves were blocked. The PA tweezed and scraped and scalpled and did not find a splinter. He found what may have been the remains of a splinter, splinter debris, and decided it wasn't worth taking the fingernail off.

Gary is now on pain medicine and antibiotics.  ("Whoa. That's a massive dose of antibiotics" said the pharmacist.) He woke up today and claimed he still couldn't feel his finger, which is a white gauze sausage, poor baby. Clearly the trick is the take him to the ER next time he burns his fingers on a pop-tart.

Flowers for Algernon

I thought this regression into adolescence was going to stop, but now it appears I'm no longer fourteen; I am ten. I was sitting with Gary, watching a duo play drums and electric guitar on tv.

"Hey," I said, "I could learn to play the guitar. You could play the drums, and I could play the guitar."

"Sure" he said in a studied flat emotionless tone.

I turned to see the sarcasm I expected in his face, because I have so little musical talent. I can play "Mary had a little lamb" on piano, and I learned a total of one song on the violin. ("French Folk Song". I can still hear it. Kind of a squeaky little tune.)

"No, really" he said to my face. "We could have a combo." Not in an Mickey Rooney "Let's Put On A Show!" tone, but sort of encouraging.

"Okay," I mused, "Arzaana-fay hasn't been using her baby Fender. And she could get the amp back from that guy in the band."

So now I'm committed.  (Not literally, yet. I think Gary would have to file some papers.) In a few weeks, check back in and see me say "Hey. I think I'd like a pony."