It didn’t really dawn on me until about four this afternoon that tonight was New Year’s Eve. Do you know why? Because I was run  over by the flu truck yesterday. I have had about 10 little Wheat Thin crackers in the past two hours, before that -nothing. I did not have the violent vomiting episode . . . and I hope I am not going to get it . . . but I did endure a spell (Graphic Content Ahead) when nothing wanted to go down my esophagus and the only things that came up were belches and burps. At one point, my mouth was so dry, I took a couple of swallows of water and then burped it up through my fingers. (I warned you.)

I feel punched all over and there are frequent notifications from my intestinal tract, but I have pulled the blanket off of my head. Last night it felt as if every noise was setting my nerves on edge – the ones in my head and the ones that go creepy, crawly sometimes under your skin. Tonight I am relaxed like a rag, and I’ll tell you, sometimes that ain’t half bad.

Down the road from the Grandma up to Scott Town House is a four-square farmhouse on a corner lot; they often put out several inflatables during the Christmas season. I think in the beginning, they left them inflated all the time, as did a lot of people. Well, of course, energy costs are climbing, but that wasn’t my first thought when I went past that house a few days ago and saw piles of vinyl where inflatables once stood. It almost looked as if their vinyl clothes had been shucked off. All at once, I thought, “Oh, my gosh, it’s the Inflatable Rapture.”

After continuous duty, troops are loading into transports for some well-deserved leave – and maybe a little hibernation.

Well, last night was interesting  – Der Bingle started the barf cycle around 11 pm.  Oh, it was bad . . . for him. I felt okay but couldn’t take one barf bucket to empty and clean without leaving another one in it’s place. Then blankets on, blankets off, blankets on.

Chlorox bleach spray is my motto this morning – along with the “please don’t let me get it” chant..

Yesterday I spoke aloud of packing up the Nutcracker army and Der Bingle was not appalled, but did find the idea unsettling. It might be a bit out of character for me: Okay, you’ve been out; Christmas is over; let’s get you stowed away.  I’m usually the one who sees personalities in little painted faces and hears random cries such as, “I wanted to see the summer roses.”

Guess I’ll have to sneak them in the box.

I think it has become too procedural for me; with artificial decorations and marketing extending holiday decorating, it doesn’t seem so much of a holiday anymore. There is a definite feeling of trying too hard, rather than letting things just come.

There were good times this year – the pretty much impromptu breadmaking, the stringing of  the 16-function golden lights in the kitchen with Quentin on one chair, Der Bingle on another and kibitzers all around, the deviled eggs Quentin-style with hot sauce added and then Summer taking it in her head to add food coloring to the yolk mixture.  You may thank me now for not including a picture.

Summer and I enjoyed wrapping her dad’s Kindle Fire in TWO boxes, using duct tape, electrician’s tape, strapping tape and telling him any early tampering would result in present forfeiture . . . Der Bingle and Quentin and kids watching a string of Burn Notice episodes on Netflix – with the no eating in the living room rule suspended . . . The illuminated lawn polar bear staying inside by the tree and getting caught on my sweater and having his arm ripped off. (It went back on.)

Elves introducing me to Little Debbie Boston Cream Cakes.

I see that we did break away from the glossy magazine template, after all. And, actually, I feeling a bit more positive about next year.

So far, I am not feeling like puking or doing anything else. Der Bingle is holding his own as well. We’re not sure about Cameron; Colin and Summer have had it for a day or so; Alison thinks she had it to some degree on Christmas Eve Day. (She had a flu shot). Late this afternoon Robert could keep nothing down  – unfortunately, the last thing he ate was steak. Alison lamented that too bad it hadn’t been a hamburger helper meal.

I don’t know about Quentin back in Houston.

Shane has sore paws, but no flu. Shane is the one who will probably go to the doctor. Ah, a dog’s life. (He got THREE  Wubba rings and TWO  Wubba footballs for Christmas.)

OH NO  . . .  I feel a rumbling in my gut.

Ambassador Duxarwaklin from Gnomdelion departed from his prepared remarks this morning, and in disjointed sentences linked  pool tables filled with all yellow balls to White House lawn Easter Egg Hunts where all eggs were yellow. Alarmed aides escorted the ambassador to the hospital, while spokesperson, Dandy Lyon, explained the  ambassador has not been sleeping well.

There has been no word from the hospital regarding the ambassador’s condition, although a knowledgeable source has stated the ambassador has begun chanting, “Sock it to me, baby.”

“You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray. You want to spray.”

“Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good. Green space is good.”