18 of 25: Fashion a Festive Christmas

Fun with clothing, courtesy of my holiday Pinterest board.  (Check yesterday's post for the link.)

Elf leg warmers made from Christmas socks, courtesy of Haydie Potatee's Etsy site:

Also on my Pinterest board - socks turned into coffee sleeves.  These would make a great gift for a neighbor or teacher, wrapped around an empty paper coffee cup with a Starbucks gift card tucked inside.

If you get invited to a tacky sweater party this year, consider bringing the host or hostess a bottle of wine tucked into its own Cosby sweater.  Love these cozies from ScrappyLynn's Etsy site:

And, finally, if you are giving someone two shirts for Christmas, consider putting one shirt in a box, and then wrapping that box with the other shirt.  Saw this idea in Country Living Magazine; love the vintage brooch pinned to the shirt in the picture below.

Holiday fashions:  they aren't just for wearing anymore!

17 of 25: There's SNOW School Next Week, MAN!

Methinks that a celebration is in order. A snowman-themed celebration. Starting with donut snowmen:

(Image courtesy of Family Fun.)

Can't have donuts without milk:

(Image courtesy of the Bakerella blog.)

The Little Kid would get a kick out of an ice cream snowman with a marshmallow head:

(Image courtesy of Luxefinds.)

Big Kid doesn't care for ice cream, but I bet he'd like one of these cookies:

OH, NO!  I'M MEEEEEEEEELTING!

(Image courtesy of the Be Different, Act Normal blog.)

We also have a snowman cookie cutter on hand. And - law of averages and all - at least one of them is bound to break. In which case we totally oughta ice it like this:

(Photo courtesy of Glitterdeli on Tumblr.)

(For links to the sources referenced above, visit my holiday Pinterest board:
http://pinterest.com/manicmomma/purposefully-whimsical-holiday/)

16 of 25: Self-Gifting

Let the record show that I tried to apply my Pottery Barn "$25 off of a $50 purchase" reward coupon towards a gift for a loved one . . . other than myself.

Really, I did.

But they didn't have the little pewter server thingy that I thought that both of our mothers would enjoy.  Appears that I missed the boat on that one.  I saw several mercury glass items that my mother might like - but I already filled this year's mercury glass quota at another retail establishment.

Picked out a tree ornament, but because of a current promotion on ornaments that only got me me $5 of the way towards $50.  I had all but settled on a holiday centerpiece that Mom didn't particularly need, but might enjoy, when I decided to swing by the linens section in the back of the store.

Where I encountered an embarrassment of pillow cover riches.

See, the Spouse and I have reached an agreement.  No more throw pillow purchases.  Because, really, enough is enough.  The boys think that the "throw" in "throw pillow" is to be taken literally, and once a pillow hits the floor, then it's fair game for the little dog, who thinks it's super-fun to lift his leg on things left at ground level.  It's kind of ironic, actually:  my favorite game as a smallish child was "Don't Touch the Ground."  Did you ever play that when you were little?  Basically, the goal was to get all of the way across a room without touching the ground.  Meaning that you walked on furniture . . . until you ran out of furniture, and then you were permitted to toss throw pillows in front of you and hop from one to the other until you could reach the next piece of furniture. 

Now, as an adult owner of a male dorgi dog with some combination of an overactive bladder and an inferiority complex, I find myself playing a variation of "Don't Touch the Ground," called "Don't Let Anything That Can't Be Thrown in the Washing Machine Touch the Ground."  It's not as much fun, believe me.

Memo to file:  adopting from the pound an adult male dog who is set in his ways is not the world's greatest idea.  Stick to puppies.  Female ones.

But I digress . . . .

I can't buy any more throw pillows, but no one said anything about throw pillow covers.  Throw pillow covers are the loophole to the throw pillow moratorium.  They take up virtually no room, and they allow me to get two different looks from the same throw pillow, which only makes the throw pillows that I already own THAT MUCH MORE RELEVANT.  Or, from Spouse's perspective, ACTUALLY SOMEWHAT RELEVANT.  How can Spouse object?  He can't.  Which totally ticks him off. 

He is predisposed to hating throw pillow covers, anyway, because (I am informed) they fall under the category of "inexplicable girl obsessions-slash-things men are blissfully ignorant of until they get married."  Also in this category:  charger plates and non-functional window treatments.  You know, like valances.

For the record, I can take or leave charger plates.  I own them but never remember to use them.  But I am a fan of valances, or at least the ones in my kitchen, and when we move back into the house I AM TOTALLY REHANGING THEM.  My mother made them for me, for Pete's sake.  Out of a tobacco leaf linen fabric that I searched for FOR, LIKE, A BAZILLION YEARS.  And so I am being careful to pick a paint color for the walls that will harmonize with the valances, WHICH ARE STAYING, DAMMIT.

Spouse predicts that the valances (or, as he refers to them, "the dust-catchers") may "disappear" during the move.  I told Spouse that, if they do disappear, he will be the "only person of interest" in the ensuing investigation.

Back to the pillow covers. 

This is one of the pillow covers that I previously purchased from PB (on clearance!  with free shipping! and they threw in the monogramming!), not realizing that they are ginormous.  24" square, which is only 2" off of a Euro bed sham.  (Begging the question:  do we really need a 26" pillow concept AND a 24" pillow concept?  Apparently, we do.  Even I, as a carrier of a girly girl card, find this somewhat dubious.)  The kids like to lounge on them, and I have been thinking for awhile that I needed a second set of covers for them - in part, because the first set is summery-looking, and also because having a second set of covers would justify the fact that I now own two 24" pillow inserts.

This is one of the 24" pillow covers that Retail Santa bought for me.  (That's Retail Santa in the foreground.  I just named him.)  33% off, plus the $25 discount on top of that.  These colors would actually look good on our bed, when we are reunited with our actual bed, and with the quilt that normally goes on our bed but that somehow went to Blackmon Mooring instead of the apartment.  The quilt is, actually, sort of Retail Santa-ish.  So I know that the pillow covers will look good with the quilt, because they look good with Retail Santa.  And, thus, I think that, going forward, the 24" pillows will summer in the living room and overwinter in the master bedroom. 

Which means that the "his side" and "her side" pillows that normally grace our bed can make a lateral move to the living room:

But what should they wear?

Aha.  These bad boys were 67% off, prior to the discount.  They are a darker teal color than what I normally display in the living room, which I think makes them look winterish.  Winter-adjacent?  Let's go with that, because they are linen.  But they are a dark teal linen.  And, at a glance, they could be burlap - which is, in my humble opinion, an all-season fabric.  Not that linen can't be multi-season, situationally; I mean, we practically live in the tropics, people.

But back to the pillow covers.  They are slightly bigger than the "his side" and "her side" pillows, which I knew going in.  But I also knew that I would find a way to make them work, because they were scandalously priced, and did I mention that they are a DARK, WINTERISH TEAL?  So here's my elegant solution:  every fall, I will wrap some quilt batting around the pillows.  One piece side to side, the other top to bottom, and I will handstitch nice running seams to keep everything in place.  What's that?  Do I own quilt batting currently?  Not in any usable quantity, no.  But the moratorium is against throw pillows, NOT AGAINST QUILT BATTING.  Another loophole.

I'm going to have my monogramming guy embroider them in a dark russet, or maybe a golden tan. You did know that that was coming, didn't you? What's the point of a throw pillow - or throw pillow cover - if you don't personalize it? Anyway, one is going to say "The McGlincheys, Est. 1996," and the other is going to have our address and "Est. 1999, Re-Est. 2012." Because I assume that I will be allowed to move into my house at some point next year.

Spouse approves of the embroidery plan.  See, that's the way I get him:  a throw pillow, by itself, not relevant.  But a throw pillow with something relevant embroidered on it:  UH, OH, MOMMA FOUND ANOTHER LOOPHOLE.  All it takes is a witty or sentimental saying, and he's on Team Throw Pillow.  Sort of.  As much as he possibly can be.

Now, about Retail Santa:  I bought him for a dollar at the Junior League resale store.  Trust me when I tell you that the Junior League resale store is a treasure trove.  It's like going to the antique mall, if the antique mall owners went all crazy-altruistic and started slashing prices.

Purchased in the same shopping trip (okay, not so much a shopping trip as "Kathryn going off of her volunteer shift and purchasing things on her way out"):  this trifle bowl with wire and glass jewel embellishments in holiday colors.

You can't tell in this picture, but it's a generous size, and it was FOUR DOLLARS. I currently am using it as a repository for Christmas cards (both cards that we have received and cards that I am in the process of addressing), but eventually I will put a trifle in it.  You know, after I remove the cards.

If only my shopping for others was going as swimmingly as my shopping for moi.  (Yes, "swimmingly" was an intentional reference to the merman ornaments from yesterday.)

16 of 25, Part Deux: The Real Elves of Cowtown

This one just makes me happy.  So happy that I might try to keep it, if it weren't for the fact that it's "promised" to the manager of a local Western couture shop.

15 of 25: Probably NSFW, But HI-flippin-LARIOUS

I was too efficient in my "friend gift" purchasing.  If only I had learned about these first, I would be putting them under several trees.

Regretsy featured these "Diamonds of the Sea" ornaments the other day, and I just had to share.

This is Salty.  Salty Merman.  But, given that it appears that Salty has enlisted in the Navy, it would also be totally appropriate to refer to him as a seaman.

 Salty Seaman.

This is Logger Merman.  I can totally see one of the "American Loggers" from the reality show bringing this fellow to a holiday ornament exchange.  If loggers have ornament exchanges.  And enjoy getting beaten up in connection therewith.

This Merman's name is Mario.  The glasses-on-the-head thing does have a certain Mario Lopez-ish vibe to it.  Am wondering if it's an homage.

Pretty clearly, Zircon Merman is an homage to the kid from "Blue Lagoon."  And, seriously, how sad is it to be the Diamond of the Sea named after a fake diamond?  A guy really knows where he stands in the pecking order.  (Heh . . . heh . . . heh.)

This is White Tuxedo Groom Merman.  Looks a wee little bit like Anderson Cooper.  Just sayin'. 

There is also a Black Tuxedo Groom Merman.  (That would be a Caucasian merman - if it's correct to refer to a merman as Caucasian - wearing a black tuxedo, not an African-American merman - again, if my nomenclature is correct - wearing a tuxedo of any color.  Just to clarify.  Caucasian merman is brunette, because, evidently, it is important to match one's hair color to one's tuxedo.)  Together they would make for a lovely anti-Prop 8 statement . . . particularly if you are a political activist with an aquatic-themed tree. 

The Web site says that either of the Tuxedo Groom Mermen would look lovely with Bride Mermaid.  (Yes, there are mermaids, too.  Any resemblance between said mermaids and drag queens is, I'm sure, completely coincidental.)

I'm not convinced.  I think Bride Mermaid is a natural counterpart to Tuxedo Bride Mermaid.

I could go on.  Yes, there is a cop, and a construction worker, and an Indian.  You can totally build your own collection of Village People mermen.  There is also a hairdresser named Bruce.  Oh, did I mention that the construction worker's name is Jack Hammer?

Of course, Spouse immediately asked about pricing.  ($23.95 per unit.  Heh . . . heh . . . heh.  "Unit.")  This is exactly the sort of thing that, at a lower price point, he might buy for his brothers as a gag gift.  (Heh . . . heh . . . okay, I'll stop.  For now.)  For the record, his brothers have earned a lifetime supply of gag gifts.  Spouse still hasn't gotten over the trauma of our first married Christmas at his parents' house.  The younger siblings asked for a gift suggestion for me, and - naive boy that he was - he provided them with a serious suggestion and told them that I wanted a Charles Barkley-autographed basketball.  (No, for reals - I have a Hakeem ball in my office, and I wanted a Charles to go along with.  Because, for years, I was forced to pretend-hate Charles when he played for Phoenix, because Phoenix was our Western Conference nemesis, but pretending to hate Charles made me feel dirty, because I LOVED Charles, the way I loved Bill Laimbeer.  Unapologetically and whole-heartedly.  Thus, I wept tears of pure joy when he got traded to the Rockets - similar to the happy tears that I wept when Hakeem and Clyde Drexler were reunited, and again when Clyde got his championship ring.  Man, I wish we'd gotten Charles a championship ring.  Hopefully, the fact that I named my cat after him is small consolation.

Have I mentioned that?  That my oldest Maine Coon's full name is Charles Wade Barkley McGlinchey?  Have I mentioned  that I acquired him on Human Charles Wade Barkley's birthday but DIDN'T ACTUALLY KNOW THAT UNTIL A YEAR LATER?  Seriously, it was a total coincidence.  Clearly, he was destined for the name.  It suits him to a tee - he's my "round mound of rebound," and he's "not a role model.")

I digress.  McGlinchey Sons #3 and #4 were, at the time, quite young (#4 was still in high school) and therefore not flush with cash, and, also, they each had (still have) a wicked sense of humor.  So they bought me an actual gift (I forget what it was), and then they went up in the attic, MAYBE five minutes before we were supposed to exchange presents, and they retrieved a somewhat deflated, ancient basketball, and wrote fake autographs all over it with a half-dried-out red Sharpie marker.  Not all of the autographs are from basketball players - some MLB and NFL greats are represented - and all of them are misspelled in kind-of-hilarious ways.

Needless to say, Spouse was scandalized (he did not know me then as well as he knows me now), and I thought it was the greatest gift ever.

While they were in the attic, the boys ran across a ticket to a Billy Ray Cyrus concert.  Yes, the "Achy Breaky Heart" Tour.  Was there another one?  Allegedly, the ticket belonged to Spouse.  So his brothers "framed" it in a cracked cassette tape case that they also found up in the attic, and hastily wrapped it, and gave it to Spouse immediately after presenting me with my non-autographed basketball.

Spouse was not amused.  At the time, I was still Catholic.  He probably was worried that Billy Ray Cyrus concert attendance was grounds for an annulment.

When I showed the Seamen - I mean, Mermen - to Spouse, I pointedly refrained from telling him that one of the ornaments is called the "Legal Briefs Merman."  The two brothers in question are both attorneys.  I am quite confident that presentation of that information would have gotten Spouse over his $23.95 sticker shock.

You're welcome, guys.  Now buy me my damn basketball already.

14 of 25: When Fanboys Bake

These are what pass for Christmas cookies at Casa McGlinchey:

On the left:  Yoda.  Duh.

On the right:  Jango Fett.  See, he's Jango, because his helmet is bluish instead of greenish.  If he was greenish, he would be Boba Fett.

It's really quite tragic that I know that.

I tend to keep things simple when I'm decorating cookies with the little kid:  add the color directly to the dough, and decorate with just one color of royal icing.  Well, a non-color.  Specifically, white.  Sprinkles:  also white.  Nothing to stain the counters or little hands.

We also baked shortbread "message cookies" (featured above) and peanut butter cookies - the old-fashioned kind with the criss-cross fork marks.  Very boy-friendly, and definitely boy-approved.

Next on the baking agenda:  gingerbread dinosaurs.  A McGlinchey holiday tradition.

Further Reflection

It's getting all "Good Will Hunting" up in here.

Seriously.  The Little Kid MAKES THIS FACE.  Complete with the furrowed brow and the divot between the eyes.  I was just too lazy to search very hard for an appropriate photo, and settled for this overly smiley one.  But you get the general idea.

Maybe they'll collaborate on an Oscar-winning screenplay.  And then take their mom to the Oscars.

A girl can dream.

Apropos of Nothing: OMG Moment While Watching Glee And Surfing Google Images

With apologies to Jimmy Kimmel:  I'm raising Matt Damon.

13 of 25: Top Ten Lists and Favorite Things

In lieu of a "year in review" Christmas card letter, I am once again resorting to image boards. (Hey, I'm a visual person.) I may get around to creating some for the grown-ups in the family at some point, but let's be realistic - these things are never about us, are they?

Top ten 2011 milestones and memories for the Big Kid:

1.  Signing off as an elementary school Stu Co rep.
2.  Demonstrating how tornadoes form and winning the group Science Fair prize along with two of his buddies.
3.  Trip to Camp Carter and luau party to mark the end of fifth grade.
4.  Winning the academic achievement award.
5.  Second year on the dive team and first year to swim the individual medley in competition (but we're still a backstroker at heart).
6.  Spending the majority of his summer at Ridglea (shown here participating in the Memorial Day bellyflop competition - in a fake mustache).
7.  Science camps galore - LEGO robotics, Battle Bots and computer animation.
8.  Last summer as a day camper at Camp Thurman.
9.  First day of sixth grade at the JP Elder Academy of Science and Art.
10.  Whiz Quiz as a blood sport.

Some of the Big Kid's favorite things in '11:

1.  Horseback riding.
2.  Anything science-y.  (Shown here puzzling over aeronautical things at the Museum of Science and History.)
3.  Skateboarding.
4.  His cat Max.
5.  Diving.
6.  Swimming.
7.  His buddies, new and old.
8.  Apparently, growing out his hair.  (We have stopped calling him Justin Bieber, because his coloring is too fair.  Instead, he is "Trouty Mouth" from Glee.  He does not object to the comparison, because he knows that it is dead-on.)

Top ten 2011 milestones and memories for the Little Kid:

1.  First year playing soccer for the Jedis.
2.  Limo ride to Chuck E. Cheese (along with big brother) in recognition of being a top PTA fundraiser seller.
3.  Having his art featured in a public display at the Fort Worth Library's main branch.
4.  First year as a Camp Thurman camper.
5.  Really starting to swim and dive, after flirting with the idea of following in the Big Kid's footsteps.  (Early indications are that we have a small butterfly specialist on our hands.)
6.  Shark birthday party.
7.  Bye, bye, baby teeth!
8.  First day of first grade in Ms. Teichelman's class (and first year to fly solo without the Big Kid at our campus).
9.  Moving out of the house and learning more than he ever wanted to know about apartment living.  (Hey, he'll be ready for college.)
10.  Cutting the front of his hair and not telling anyone about it.  (Mom had her suspicions, and Hairdresser got him to fess up.)

Some of the Little Kid's favorite things in '11:

1.  Batman and all things Batman-related (pictured:  The Joker).
2.  His buddies.
3.  Reading chapter books, particularly scary ones.  Goosebumps are a go-to favorite.
4.  His great-grandmother and Ace the Batdog.
5.  Ice cream (pictured here on a stick, but he'll take it any way that he can get it).
6.  NERF guns.
7.  Drawing.  Drawing anything, on any surface, using any medium.  Kid's an artist.
8.  Star Wars:  The Clone Wars.  (Pictured here wearing a clone trooper helmet that his brother made for him out of paper.  Not making that up. Brother's an artist, too.)
9.  Trying out his brother's skateboard - for a nanosecond here and there.  He has a healthy fear of it - and that pleases Mom to no end.

Apropos of Nothing: RG3 Is Super, But He Picked The Wrong DC Comics Metaphor

For the record, I was cheering for Robert Griffin III to win the Heisman before he showed up sporting DC Comics footwear.  And he didn't really need the socks to prove that he was a superhero.  To paraphrase a friend from high school who attended RG3's alma mater, he did the impossible:  HE MADE BAYLOR RELEVANT.  (That's not coming from me, people.  I am quoting an actual Baylor alum.  Don't hate the player, hate the game.)

But I do question his choice of DC Comics footwear.  Not simply because he went with Superman, and, IMHO, Superman is WAY inferior to Batman.  I just don't think that Superman is the correct metaphor for a quarterback.

Batman is the general.  The quintessential team leader.  The play caller.  The guy with a multitude of weapons in his arsenal who is flexible in his thinking and knows when to go with an exploding batarang and when to break out a can of bat shark repellent.

Substitute "the run" for "exploding batarang" and "the pass" for "a can of bat shark repellent," and you have RG3, or Vince Young (the UT Edition, not the NFL Edition).

Superman is all about brute strength.  Superman plays on the line.  And Flash, clearly, is a running back.  But Batman is the QB.   Period, paragraph.

12 of 25: All I Want for Christmas Is a Truckload of Money From the Tooth Fairy, Some Non-Crunchy Breakfast Food and a Way-Back Machine

Big Kid turned twelve, and apparently his twelve-year molars got the memo. He lost tooth #1 on the drive to school on Thursday, and this morning I awoke to, "Oh, good, you're up. LOOK," followed by a bloody tooth being shoved into my field of vision. Today's tooth was not a molar. It was the lone eye tooth that was hanging on in his mouth.

Now he has a gap on one side that you could drive a truck through, and I am informed that other teeth have provided their notices to vacate, so good thing that we took family photos when we did.

Of course, I was called upon to make pancakes on the spur of the moment, "because I just don't think I can chew anything else, Mom." Fortunately, I have the assembly-line pancake thing down, and I always make extra to warm up in the microwave the next day, so that's Tuesday's breakfast taken care of. Dad inquired as to the breakfast options available at Big Kid's school and was informed that, "Everything's too hard to chew."

Do they have eggs?

"Yes, but the eggs are crunchy."

Excuse me?

"You know, like an omelet?"

What the heck kind of omelet are they serving you? Oh - it's the FILLING that's crunchy. Bacon, apparently, is involved.  But do they offer anything else? Scrambled eggs, maybe?

"Only way you can get scrambled eggs is in a tortilla, and I don't think I could tear a tortilla with my remaining teeth."

Have you considered OPENING the tortilla and just eating the egg filling, perhaps with a fork?

Never mind. This is my blonde child we're talking about. (It's okay - I was once a blonde child myself, so it's totally not racist when I say it.)  The same blonde child who was watching a three week-old recorded episode of "Modern Family" in the living room this past Saturday and came running into the bedroom, wanting to know what we were doing on Sunday at 8 pm, "because the American Music Awards are coming on, and I totally want to watch those. I love the AMA's, and I never miss them."

Yeah, um, except that apparently you're not THAT big of a fan, and apparently you DO miss them, because later in the day Mom and Dad got around to watching the same three-week recorded episode of "Modern Family" and took note of the ad for the AMA's that was embedded therein. Ad established that the AMA's were to take place the Sunday immediately following the three week-old recorded show, meaning that THE AMA'S WERE ALSO THREE WEEKS AGO. Big Kid apparently forgot that he was watching something from the not-so-distant past. Spouse and I registered what had happened at the same time, I looked at Spouse and opened my mouth to speak, and Spouse cut me off: "Don't you dare tell him. Wait until tomorrow at about 7:59 pm."

Spouse was never a blonde child.  Clearly.  Spouse is also of the opinion that it's not child abuse to have a little fun at your child's expense.  As it was, being that this is my blonde child, he forgot all about the VERY EXCITING NO-LONGER-UPCOMING AMA'S, and they were never mentioned Sunday night.  But it's entirely possible that we'll be treated with a forehead slap and a "I can't believe I missed them" comment later in the week.

And then the parental units will communicate silently with their eyes and attempt to reach a consensus as to whether to tell him that he missed them by roughly a month.

Not sure if blondes really do have more fun, but others certainly have more fun when they are around them.

11 of 25: Fifth Street Angels

[Photo of Chrismon tree at our church.  If you don't know what a Chrismon tree is, you may not be a Methodist.  Or a Lutheran.  But that's okay - to each his own.]

My mother-in-law, herself the mother of FOUR boys (and a card-carrying United Methodist Woman with mad Chrismon-making skeelz), has a phrase for the phenomenon where a (boy) child is a hellion at home but comports himself completely differently in polite company:   "House devil, street angel."

We experienced a miracle on Fifth Street last Sunday:  the Small One sat essentially perfectly still for three hours.  He participated in the 9:30 "Children First" service and enthusiastically listened to the three choirs and 40-piece orchestra that were part of the 11:00 "Music Festival" service.  HE EVEN LISTENED TO THE SERMON.

He only spent fifteen minutes out of the three hours playing on my Blackberry, and that was between services. And he played "Word Mole," which is an educational word-building game, for Pete's sake.

I checked him for fever roughly ten times over the course of three hours.

The Big Kid lucked out:  he had confirmation class first hour, so he was stuffing toiletry bags as part of a mission project until about 10:45, but he, too, was respectful and attentive during the music service.  Not one punch was thrown.  Oh, and he voluntarily wore a coat and tie.

I also checked him for fever multiple times.

If I were cynical, I would say that they knew that Santa was watching.  But, really, I think that they are just growing up.

We'll see how they do today . . . .

10 of 25: First Annual Holiday Music Awards

(I say "First Annual" like there's an actual chance of a "Second Annual," but, really, I don't see my opinions changing on any of these.  But here goes.)

BEST TRADITIONAL CAROL - "YES, I USED TO BE CATHOLIC" DIVISION:  O Come, All Ye Faithful.  Except, when it comes out of my mouth, it's Adeste Fidelis. Even if we're standing in the middle of First United Methodist, and hundreds of people around me are singing the English version in perfect unison,  I have been known to sing it in Latin.  It just sounds better that way. 

Old habits die hard.

BEST TRADITIONAL CAROL - "YES, I AM AN AUSTRIAN-AMERICAN WITH NINE YEARS OF GERMAN INSTRUCTION UNDER HER BELT" DIVISION:  Tie between O Tannenbaum and Stille Nacht - I mean, O Christmas Tree and Silent Night.  More songs that I sing in a foreign language, to the chagrin of my older child.  "It's just weird, Mom."  You think that's weird?  In college, during midterms and finals, my sorority sisters knew that I was some combination of sleep-deprived and overcaffeinated when I started listening to show tunes while I studied.  They knew that I had reached a new level of sleep-deprivation and overcaffeination when choreography was involved - and they knew that I was AMPS ON ELEVEN WHEN I STARTED SPONTANEOUSLY TRANSLATING SHOW TUNES INTO GERMAN.  Ditto the greatest hits of the Eighties:  "Es Macht Spass UPSILON-EMM-TSEH-AH Zu Bleiben!"  Stumped?  Here's a hint:  the literal German translation of "Village People" is Dorf Volk.  True story.  More hints:  upsilon is Y in German, and emm is the phonetic pronunciation of  M.  Now you've got it, right?

One of these days, I'm taking my immediate family back to Austria at Christmastime.  We'll hit all of the Christkindlmarkts and drink wassail and eat roasted chestnuts, and then we'll attend the traditional reenactment of the first performance of "Silent Night" in the tiny church where it originated.  And then we'll go sledding.  Yes, I realize that I sound like a Teutonic Buddy the Elf.

BEST TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL - "BECAUSE IT MAKES ME THINK FONDLY OF HUGH GRANT" DIVISION:  Good King Wenceslas.  Because, good, sweet Heaven above, I loves me some "Love Actually."

BEST TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL - "BECAUSE IT TAKES ME BACK TO ELEMENTARY SCHOOL" DIVISION:  The Friendly Beasts.  Because, once upon a time, I was Dove #2.  One of the many reasons why I love "Love Actually": 

"We've been given our parts in the Nativity play, and I'm the lobster."

"The lobster?"

"Yeah, first lobster."

"There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?"

"Duh."

My mother lived that scene, when I was roughly in third grade.  But whereas Emma Thompson got to make a papier mache lobster head (which she pronounces all Euro and cool - "pah-pee-AHR MAH-shay"), my mother got to make a dove costume with articulated wings, and a hood, and a polyester fiberfill dove badonkadonk that would make Kim Kardashian feel inadequate in the booty department.  If pressed, I could probably do my bit for you today, from pure muscle memory:

"I," said the dove from the rafters high [gesture with left wing]

"I cooed Him to sleep so He would not cry" [gesture with right wing].

Et cetera.

BEST TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL - "BEST TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL, PERIOD" DIVISION: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.  "And ransom captive Israel, That mourns in lonely exile here. Until the Son of God appear."  Seriously, they don't write lyrics like that anymore.

MOST DEPRESSING TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL:  In the Bleak Midwinter.  It's all there in the title, isn't it? 

MOST "SILENCE OF THE LAMBS-ISH" TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS CAROL:  Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.  "Veiled in flesh the Godhead see."  It's . . . just . . . the head?  With skin sort of loosely draped over it?  I'm confused. And a bit creeped out.

MODERN CHRISTMAS SONG THAT MAKES ME WEEP LIKE A BABY:  Mary, Did You Know?   No, that's the title - I'm not asking a theoretical reader named Mary if she knew what song renders me blubbering and incapacitated.

You thought I was going to say The Christmas Shoes, didn't you?

MOST EMBARASSING SONG FROM MY TWEEN'S PERSPECTIVE - "OH, NO, MOM IS SINGING" DIVISION:  I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.  I sing it very enthusiastically.  I.  Am.  Fully.  Committed.  And the big kid.  Is.  Mortified.

MOST EMBARRASSING SONG FROM MY TWEEN'S PERSPECTIVE - "OH, NO, MOM IS CAR DANCING" DIVISION:  Linus and Lucy by Vince Guaraldi.  You know, the "Charlie Brown Christmas Special" song.  I cannot help it:  when I hear it, I start doing the Peanuts dance.  If I'm in a car, I dance from the waist up.  Hence, the tween's mortification when we stop at stoplights.

MOST EMBARRASSING SONG FROM MY SPOUSE'S PERSPECTIVE - "OH, NO, MY WIFE THINKS THAT SHE'S KAREN CARPENTER/SERIOUSLY, SHE IS CHANNELING KAREN CARPENTER OVER THERE" DIVISION:  Merry Christmas, Darling.  Except you have to sing it like this:  "Merrrrrrry Christmas, Darrrrrrrrling."  All drawn out like you just popped a Valium.  And when you sing the line, "Holidays are joyful," it is important to eliminate any traces of joy from your inflection.

GUILTY PLEASURE - "EVEN THOUGH IT'S PRETTY DAMNED DEPRESSING" DIVISION:  Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.  Specifically, the Pretenders' cover version.  Nothing better captures the "is-that-all-there-is?" mood that settles over the house around noon on Christmas Day:  "Okay, so all of the gifts are open, and now I have to deal with recycling the packaging, and then I have to choose between finding places to put all of the new stuff (which basically means CLEANING MY HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY) or shoving it artfully back under the tree, except it does not look at all artful, because unwrapped gifts are not NEARLY as aesthetically pleasing as wrapped ones, and I REALLY just want to take a nap because the kids got me up at oh-dark-thirty, but we have a command performance at my parents', and is it really worth going to all of this trouble for a half hour of frenzied package-opening, and yada-yada-yada?"

GUILTY PLEASURE - "YES, I AM A CHILD OF THE EIGHTIES" DIVISION:  Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses.

Hmm - never tried to translate that one into German.  Ooh, a challenge.

9 of 25: Progressive Partying

Last Saturday night was party-hopping night for the McGlincheys.  Don't know what it is about the calendar this year, but events that normally don't coincide are ending up right on top of each other.

But that's okay.  When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, and when life hands you conflicting invites, you McGyver a progressive dinner out of it.

Stop 1:  Our neighbors' open house.  Nice to actually see our neighbors.  Nice to ACTUALLY BE ON OUR STREET.  We parked in our driveway and walked over two houses.  Sad that parking in our driveway was kinda novel?

Neighbors had a jazz trio at their party, which I realize is not outside of the norm during the holiday season, but it's where the jazz trio performed that screamed, "This is an Arlington Heights party."  Like us, our neighbors have a carriage house that is entirely inaccessible by horseless carriages but is, instead, marooned at the back of the property line.  Unlike us, their carriage house is two stories.  (Once upon a time, ours had a second story, but then there was a fire, some time during the 1950's.)  Also unlike us, they don't utilize their carriage house for random junk storage but, instead, have turned the first floor into a microbrewery and the second floor into a man cave.  Except you can't call it a man cave if it's in the air, so instead everyone refers to it as "The Treehouse."  Their adult son lived in The Treehouse when he was in grad school and, as of this weekend, our Big Kid has inquired about rental rates.  "You know, not for now, but for in a couple of years - like when I'm fifteen."

Keep dreaming, kid.  (Actually, I fear that when he is fifteen the thought of foisting him off on the neighbors may be tragically appealing.)

If the Big Kid wasn't fascinated by The Treehouse before, he is really fascinated now, because that's where the jazz trio performed.  Why not?  Lots of performance space up there, it was out of the way of the traffic pattern, and they opened all of the windows, so the music wafted out and down over the rest of the party.  (It had been raining all day but stopped long enough for us all to congregate out-of-doors.)

They served pumpkin ale from the Wet Dog Brewery (AKA the microbrewery that the host and his next-door neighbor run out of the carriage house), and you had to go out to the carriage house if you wanted seafood.  I have no idea why, but that was the buffet dividing line:  meatballs and roast beef upfront, salmon and boiled shrimp in the back yard.

Works for me.

After the pseudo block party, we headed west to Friend Melissa's annual dessert open house.  We always enjoy her open houses, but this one was especially enjoyable because, over wine and desserts, Spouse and I determined that Friend Melissa's kitchen is EXACTLY AS WIDE AS OURS, and her island is placed roughly where our island will be placed.  Yup, you guessed it - the measuring tape came out, and many horrible kitchen re-enactments were staged.  It's okay - by the time we party-hopped over there, most of the other guests had gone, so we weren't in anyone's way.   They weren't in a hurry to kick us out, and the kids weren't in a hurry to leave, because they were upstairs with Friend Melissa's kids, staging an EPIC BATTLE involving, among other weapons, light sabers and a set of X-Men Wolverine claws.

Please enjoy these festive images of freestyle kid-centric holiday merriment with my compliments.

(Doesn't the above image just SCREAM "Merry Christmas"?  Okay, but you agree that it might inspire screaming of some sort, don't you?  Screams of terror, or screams of hysterical laughter - the important thing is, screaming definitely is involved.)

Thumbs up to a great night of progressive partying.

8 of 25: Improvised Cookie Recipe

Bought cinnamon M&Ms as an impulse purchase at the Super Target checkout.  Thought I might try baking cookies with them, utilizing the Toll House recipe.  Small problem:  I was one stick of butter short to make Toll House-type dough.  So I utilized what I had on hand (namely, Duncan Hines cake mix and cooking oil) and modified a cake mix cookie recipe.  Didn't particularly love the batter when I tasted it, and didn't particularly love the cookies right after they came out of the oven, but once they cooled I became a fan.

CINNAMON M&M COOKIES

1 box butter-recipe yellow cake mix
1 bag cinnamon M&Ms
1/2 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup dried coconut
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs, slightly beaten

Heat oven to 350 degrees.  In large bowl, combine all ingredients; blend well.  Drop dough by rounded teaspoonfuls 2 inches apart onto ungreased cookie sheets.  Bake for 8-10 minutes.  Cool 1 minute; remove from cookie sheets. 

Yield:  at least 2 dozen, depending on how you define "rounded."