Chicago -
By Claudia Hunter
I arrived home late last night. Home. My home. What a relief. I had a two-hour car ride to the airport in Baltimore yesterday, with my father at the wheel. I tried just listening to my headphones, but, ineveitably, he wanted to talk.
What did I really want to do with myself?
Posted on December 28, 2006
By Maude Perkins
When I wrote about our motley weekend bunch for last week’s posting, I had no idea the overwhelming response I would receive, nor that it would arouse a sequel. My devoted related readers appreciated my uncharacteristically sparing use of the word “fuck.” And my sister thought it was good of me to write a “nice” column right before Christmas. Ha! I guaranteed her this was not a decision I consciously made, but rather the column appeared nice because I didn’t actually talk about any of my regular customers for a change.
But perhaps the best thing to come from last week’s column was the response from my tittilicious co-worker’s husband, Niles. I’ve talked about Niles in past posts, specifically about how he is a cynical sonuva- just like me. For the past eight weeks of red and green disgust, Niles and I have been in a duel trying to see which of us hates Christmas more.
I took the lead about a week prior to Christmas when I developed a nasty flu and my shriveled heart actually shrunk three sizes, as I had even less energy to deal with the holiday shit hitting the fan. I suffered through my work week, which was only enhanced by two random nosebleeds in front of customers, and the sudden appearance of hundreds of more assholes than I usually see.
It was this past Saturday, on the eve before the Eve, when Niles came into the store and purchased a gift card. He handed it to my sick disoriented self at the bar and instructed me to buy the homeless people’s coffees that evening, on him. Needless to say, I was very touched by his gesture.
Saturday turned into the most hectic and stressful day I have encountered in my barista history. And my week-long illness took an unfortunate turn into an ear infection, rendering me closer to useless and also partially deaf. I was miserable beyond words by the time the homeless people arrived early that night.
Posted on December 27, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
So I’m coming home tonight. Last night, my mom threw a monkey wrench in my bitterness. She cornered me, took me by the shoulders, stared in my eyes, and said, “I need something from you.”
Huh?
“I need you to forgive me for all the things that I did wrong when you were growing up. I know I screwed up. But I did the best I knew how to do at the time. And I need you to forgive me. And when you’re ready, I need you to tell me.”
Jesus. Of course, I’m trying not to cry, and she’s crying, and all I can say is, “I’m trying. I love you, but I’m trying on the other stuff. It takes some time, Mom. It takes . . . a lot of writing. And a lot of time. But I’ll let you know.”
I hugged her and left.
Posted on December 27, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
After getting up and assembling my “light,” which took some doing (and which will take some undoing as I’ve got to pack it up in the morning to come home, glorious home), my best childhood friend arrived with her two-year-old. I know I’m supposed to think he’s wonderful and appreciate his fabulosity, but all I can think is, Thank the Lord it’s not mine.
Posted on December 26, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
Well, it’s 12:35 p.m. and we’ve finally finished opening all the presents and breakfasting. The whole gifting thing doesn’t hold a ton of interest for me these days – everyone showers the kids and their own spouses with stuff, and then, well, there’s the afterthought: Me. Consequently, I received one of those lights that people who don’t do well in winter in Northern climes are supposed to sit next to every day til summer comes; a pillow from Turkey (my parents visited there this year – my siblings received rugs); a necklace from Greece (not much of a jewelry girl, but the stones are nice); some sheets, which was probably the best gift; and the new Tom Waits, which I’d been wanting. I can usually count on my brother to get me something that I actually want.
The rest of the time, I just stare off into space while everyone else opens millions of gifts.
Posted on December 25, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
So I managed to escape last night’s activities by zonking out shortly after 6:30 p.m. and not getting up til after eight this morning (minus a 4:30 a.m. forage for Christmas cookies and a drink). My father did bring the phone in around 8:30 last night, after I’d been dead asleep and taken my regular retinue of prescription drugs, so I could talk to my best childhood friend. Whether she understood a word I was saying remains to be seen. I don’t have much recollection of the conversation myself. I know from other people’s descriptions that I sound like I’m utterly soused in those situations, so it must have at least been amusing for her.
My mother is definitely sick – never in my life have I known her to sleep til quarter til 10. Definitely throws a wrench in the works – it’s so hard for her to talk she has yet to criticize my clothing. Maybe I just always need to visit when she’s under the weather. It might really improve our relationship.
Posted on December 24, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
It’s been a pretty good morning so far. Part of that is due to my mom’s worsening cough. I feel bad for her – here she is, the Queen of Christmas, and she can’t even croak a few words out without sending herself into spasms of coughing. But it does slow the level of activity.
It poured all day yesterday, and today’s planned activity was that we all go see A Christmas Carol at a local black box theater, but that got a huge thumbs down from nearly everyone, so, since it’s nice and sunny today, Christmas Candylane at Hersheypark it is! Nothing like a giant character dressed as a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup to give you screaming nightmares for weeks.
Last night we all watched The Grinch – not the good one, but the new(ish) Jim Carrey one, which is beastly long and fairly unwatchable. After breakfast this morning I snuck back to bed, and since my mother is sick in bed and my dad had to sleep on the couch, I got away with it.
And now, I’m wearing the “horrible hat”. We’ll see how long I get away with that.
Posted on December 23, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
Within hours of my arrival, the asthma attacks started. Not just any asthma attacks, either. The monstrous, “Am I going to die like this?”, terrifying, gasping, wheezing, asthma attacks. What the hell could be in my parents’ house that could send me in to anaphalactic shock? I mean, besides my parents?
I finally narrowed it down. It’s the Christmas tree.
Posted on December 22, 2006
By Claudia Hunter
So I’m actually on the plane, on the tarmac. Unfortunately, it’s not the plane I am supposed to be on. A combination of me being up too late last night, it being freezing in my place this morning, having a warm dog snuggled up to me, and then being on the slowest Blue Line train ever made me five minutes too late to make a flight with checked baggage. So I stood in line for eight years, only to find out the next three flights to Baltimore, the nearest big airport, were overbooked. Then, a stroke of genius. What about Harrisburg? Could they get me there? It’s only about twenty minutes from my the ol’ homestead. The airline guy looked doubtful.
“I dunno, miss. Somethin’ like that’ll usually cost ya well over a hunnert dollars. But let’s see if we can’t get you a Christmas Miracle and just get you on for a twenny-five dollar change fee.”
He tapped on his keyboard, then looked up in surprise. “Whaddya know? It accepted it for twenny-five!” He leaned in toward me. “Let’s not tell anyone about this, ok? I don’t want no trouble.” Then he called out “Merry Christmas!” and sent me on my way.
Posted on December 21, 2006
Date Taken: 12/20/06
From: Lincoln Square
To: Roscoe Village
The Cab: There is no more magical sight on a rainy winter’s eve than a van cab with an automatic door. But wait . . . it gets better. The interior features captain’s chairs in the front-rear section, each fitted with their own snug-fitting seatbelt. The air freshening is kept to nose-tickling levels, although perhaps a tad sweet for such a clean, bold, masculine interior.
The Driver: True, he loves his hands-free cell phone, but he keeps the conversational volume politely low. Not so the cheesy, soft-jazz instrumental interpretations of Yuletide classics, which are unfortunately just loud enough to lodge firmly in the passenger’s brain. But when the velvet-voiced chauffeur begins cheerfully humming and scatting along, well, come on now. This reviewer’s not made of stone.
Posted on December 20, 2006
