Not the Struggle, But the Triumph

In a few hours, we are off to my sister's house for a Christmas Eve evening of finger foods and game-playing and wine-tasting (for some, not me). The imbibers cracked me up one year, sipping the most terrible wine ever, then urging others to give it a try. "Here. It's terrible. Try this." Of course it made my super-secret blog. Here's an excerpt:

The wine tasting was the same as years past. I, myself, do not imbibe. That doesn't put a crimp in Hick's style. The Ex-Mayor brings out bottles of wine he has collected, and the imbibers swirl them around in little glasses and then pretty much chug them and try another. All was going well, with blackberry ruling the evening, followed by pinot noir (pronounced around Backroads as peanut nor), then mixed berry that smelled like plums (I am the official wine sniffer). The party came to a screeching halt when Ex-Mayor's bro took a sip of St. James Pink Catawba. Not to disparage a local Missouri wine, but that stuff did not even smell good. Granted, it had been opened last year and lolled about the Ex-Mayor's fridge since then. Let's just say that it did not age well. Or perhaps they did not enjoy it last year, either, since so much was left in the bottle.

In true Backroads High School teacher lunch table fashion, Bro proffered the bottle to his wife, and urged, "Try that. It's terrible!" So of course she poured a glass and sipped. "Yuck! Here, taste that!" The Ex-Mayor held up the bottle, spun it around, announced "Pink Catawaba," and poured himself a glass. He frowned. "That's not good. Here, Hick. Try it. I'll give you that to take home and hide from Genius. I guarantee one sneak of that stuff, and he won't want to drink." Hick showed remarkable restraint in only pouring about an inch of Pink Catawba into his glass. He swilled. "Nope. That's not any good." The top was screwed back on the bottle. For all I know, Pink Catawba was stored away for another year, to earn sour faces again next Christmas Eve. The imbibers returned to the mixed berry for another round.

According to Sis, complaints have been lodged about my game-playing. Not so much my game-playing, it seems, as my winning. Can I help it that I have an IQ higher than that of Hitler? Just be glad that I use my powers for good, not evil, I say. And if I catch the little crybabies who complained, I'm going to give them what for! So...apparently, the games this year will not be so mentally taxing, but of a different nature. I can only guess physical, what with my wrists being debilitated over the past week with all that Chex Mix tending. Sis went on to say that several of our regulars won't be there this year. In fact, other than my immediate family and the kids of Sis, my brother-in-law's mother will be the only competition. I know where I stand with my people. As far as BIL's mom...I think I can take her in a physical competition. She is pushing ninety. Then again, her wrists remain supple, never having known the toil of Chex Mix baking.

I'd better come home with a prize! I'm in it to win it, not just to take part. Those Olympic folks who live by the creed, not the triumph, but the struggle, are no doubt a bunch of non-medal also-rans. "Go big or go home," says Val the Victorian. Nobody's going to write your epitaph as "She elbowed an old lady to the ground in a game of Christmas Twister."