Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Old and New Christmas Traditions

Old Tradition: Ornaments

This year's ornaments:

An alpaca and a dead armadillo. The alpaca, of course, because of the Branson Alpaca Spitting Incident, and the armadillo because the armadillos continue their inexorable march to our backyard. They aren't quite here yet, but we saw a dead armadillo three miles away.

I realize now that I didn't document last year's ornament, which was a wine bottle, commemorating the year we started buying wine. I say buying wine, not drinking wine. We have amassed a substantial collection of almost full open wine bottles.

I found one full bottle on Christmas-Eve-eve and drank all of it, instituting:

New Tradition: Drunk Gift Wrapping

It was a cave wine. Mark Twain Cave in Hannibal MO sells wine. That's an example of the classy wine we buy. Not much else happened in Hannibal, except I took a photo that encapsulates the Hannibal experience, with Miss Hannibal barefoot in front of the Mark Twain museum.

Anyway, cave wine was just the ticket for Wednesday night, because I had all the presents to wrap and my back was tweaked. It was more water than wine, so I had a second glass to kill the pain, then a third glass because Gary wasn't looking, then a fourth glass because I've never had a whole bottle of wine before. Interestingly, I can drink a whole bottle of cave wine and not even be legally drunk per the breathalyzer. I metered in at 0.05. 

Old Tradition: Chrstmas Cookies

Last year we donned the mantle of Christmas cookie chefs.

That was last year's cookie haul. This year we made double that amount. Fifteen types, about three dozen of each. But it did make me dip into Mom's recipe box and make Mocha Balls.

I wondered for a while why Mocha Balls were the only family Christmas cookie I remember. Then, when I was shaping the balls and smelling the mocha, I remembered: it was my job to roll out the balls, being the only person in the family with functioning hands and fine motor control.

Since I need to integrate more of my family into our Christmas Day, I served popovers for Christmas breakfast.

New Tradition: Popovers for Breakfast

These popovers are trying too hard.

Old Tradition: Gifts

Gary has a bad habit of giving offering me gifts early, and I have a bad habit of giving in to him as he dances about waving candy in front of me as he coos "open this early! You can have your candy right now," so I usually have nothing to open Christmas morning.

This year I early-opened the candy, all the pajamas, and the Big Gift: Necomimi Cat Ears that reflect your brainwaves, Perfect for our brain-damaged family.

They are exquisitely painful, because one place it accesses your brainwaves is your earlobe, so it's like wearing a pair of clip-on earrings for hours. Still, they do seem to work, perking up when you crunch ice or hear loud sounds, drooping down when you get a quiet moment in the bathroom at the in-laws.

He also bought me earrings, which was nice, only my ears closed up years ago. So, time again to re-pierce my ears and stick with the six months of studs for real this time.

Finally, Untraditional Reindeer Family

I opened the front door Christmas morning, and admired my reindeer family: Mr. and Mrs. Reindeer and their baby.

Wait! Where is Baby?

"The bastards! " I thought, "They stole Baby!"

A few steps out into the yard revealed Baby's true fate:

Tami Y tells me this is unoriginal. Still, it gave me a good laugh on Christmas.The culprit remains at large.

A Christmas Tradition: Bowling

As you know, bowling means a little something different to me than to others.

For years, bowling has been my euphimism for menstruation. See here for the backstory of how old-school education videos promoted that idea.

Imagine my surprise when earlier this year John Oliver showed an educational video that expanded on that notion. If you click that link it starts at 1:06, but then you'll stay for the whole twenty minutes because it's pretty funny.

This new video suggests that menstruation makes you better at bowling. I contest that theory. Now that the menopause has settled in, and I menstruate no more (cross my fingers and legs), I have started bowling at our department Christmas party, and I am improving.

Here is last year's score of 30:

These are the last few frames. I have highlighted the frame in which I knocked down all the pins but they cruelly took away my ten points because my foot went over the line. My foot went over the line because I had abandoned proper bowling form in frame 2. I think I was running up to the ball and kicking it. My signature bowling move was "The Pendulum," in which I stood near the line, faced the side wall, and swung my arm five times before releasing.

Mike B was also on my team. He somehow managed to get a score of 118 by hurling the ball at the pins in such a way it would spiral down the lane and sweep almost sideways across the pins. He started by claiming he isn't very good at bowling, so I felt comfortable joining his team.

This year I bowled at a new alley with Mike and Bo. I am proud to say I exceeded my personal best.

 

My new personal best is now 43. (You may think I am taking the score of someone with a name starting with "H," however, that's because my handle was "Handicap," because I was acting as a handicap to Mike B, to even the field.)

You see that I highlghted my strike in frame seven. I got that strike with a move I like to call "The Butt," in which I position my butt to face the pins, spread my legs, and push the ball through my legs, and evidently get a strike, thank you very much.

When we noticed that this new alley displayed your speed in the upper right corner, Bo suggested we vie for the slowest speed. A few frames after my strike (bows, thank you, thank you), I bowled so slowly that the ball eventually plopped in the gutter, rolled a bit, and then just sat there.

"Walk down there and kick it," Bo suggested.

"No! Croquet! Croquet bowl!" I shrieked. We had Mike roll his ball hard down the gutter and it knocked my ball to the end of the lane.

So. 43. Who knows how good I can get at bowling?

Fallow

Part I: I Am Boring

My creativity is in its fallow phase. I haven't been to this blog for almost two weeks. Nothing has struck me as funny except for one remark my mother-in-law made at Thanksgiving.

She hasn't been well, so we all pitched in and she got to rest. She was watching Gary and his sister hash out How Things Should Be Done. ("THIS is how we'll do it." "NO! THIS is the only way." "I DON'T WANT TO ARGUE ABOUT IT WE ARE DOING IT THIS WAY.")

She said, "This is the first year I've been able to sit back and watch from a distance." She paused. "It's pretty funny watching them argue."

I remember a time I found humor in watching Gary argue. Lately, not so much.

Part II: I Am Way Behind On My Star Wars

I saw Star Wars in the theater on my very first date with anyone.

I saw Empire Strikes Back in the theater, almost certainly with Joey. (It came out in June 1980, and we didn't break up until September, so it must have been with Joey.)

I saw Return of the Jedi in the theater with Gary, thus ending the cycle of dating during the age of Star Wars.

And then, the three prequels ... never saw them. Not a one. They've been on TV: I've flipped past them. Gary's seen them.

I want to watch them before I see the next one, and it looks like I'll have plenty of time. The theater where I want to see it is booked up until February.

Part III: Other People Are Creative

As you know, my prom date Virgil became an established artist. I imagine that either:

    A) being my date for prom gave him the confidence to pursue his dreams, or

    B) had I put out at prom he would not have suffered enough to become an artist. 

Either way, I am taking credit for his creativity since I have none of my own. 

About that prom. I wasn't supposed to go to prom with Virgil, but my boyfriend Joey got grounded, and Virgil swooped in.

As it turns out, had I gone with Joey I could still claim fifteen minutes worth of prom date fame, because Joey is the parent half of the parent-son team who made this viral Facebook post:

Joey is going by his first name, Phil, now. (Hmph. My dad was a Danny till the day he died.)

I thought it was cute when I saw it on Joey's ("Phil's") Facebook page. I also thought it was remarkable Joey's carpet is that clean given that he has a terrier. Then I saw it on a friend's page, then another's, and then everywhere.

Here they are talking about the experience in the Huffington Post and the Daily Mail.  

WERE IT NOT FOR ME, WORLD, going to see Empire Strikes Back with Joey/"Phil," you may never have had the Stormtrooper Christmas Tree. Taking full credit for this one. That's what we Creativity Leeches do.