The Death of Imagination

*blows dust from cover*

I even brought home a laptop from work with the intention of writing entries from home but it never made it out of the carrying case. I'm not sure if it would've helped or not. Instead of journaling here I tended to post to FB (I think I made something like a half dozen posts each on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day) which drew some positive attention but didn't let me delve into my issues the way I can when everyone in the bloody world isn't listening in.

In short, my break started off rough and got better. Christmas Eve was the first time I've really cried for my father since he died. I tried distracting myself with a movie and ended up crying for Monshu instead. In retrospect, I probably should've done what I did last time I spent Christmas Eve in Chicago and gotten together for dinner with friends but I'm still figuring this shit out.

Christmas and St Stephen's Day weren't great either mainly because all that time in the kitchen led to problems in my feet. I finally got so spooked I went to urgent care for an x-ray, which of course found nothing, and followed up with a podiatrist, who diagnosed me with "overuse", which seems to be medical jargon for "getting old".

My anxieties relieved, I was able to really enjoy myself. That Friday turned out well and Saturday I had friends take me out for both brunch and a midday meal. Sunday I dined with Uncle Betty before we hit the bars and then paid for it on Monday. New Year's Eve day was games with JB & Co. and New Year's Day was games with new friends in North Park.

As a result, I've ridden the rollercoaster from feeling nearly abandoned to feeling surrounded with love. I'm looking forward to getting back to something of an even keel.

In case anyone is still in suspense about my Christmas visit to St Louis, it went well. The boys got books; everyone else got a crisp $100 bill and if they were disappointed by that they didn't let on. Crazy Brother wanted me to know that he planned to spend his on a trip to a strip club last night, thereby demonstrating the superiority of cash over gift certificates when it comes to giving someone what they really want.

Coincidentally, he was the only one I lost my shit at when I was down there. For the most part, people were good about not making demands of me and I was good about not hearing unspoken ones. Like my mom didn't mention once her daft notion that I'd stay at her wreck of a house; I did have a moment of "Just one night" and then psychicly slapped myself.

By my brother didn't get the memo and, on the way to the family party, invited me to stay at his shitty apartment. I politely told him "no", he insisted, and I went on a rant about wanting to sleep in a bed of my own in a room of my own with a door that shuts and get a good night's sleep without having to suffer noisy neighbours, animal pests, or hyperactive children who get up at 7 a.m.

My sister (who's more than once offered her couch) wasn't expecting this. "I just don't understand why you've got so much heat." "Because 'no' means 'no'," I retorted. I'm not refusing these offers out of politeness; it's politeness alone which compels me to pretend to consider them at all. I'm fucking 48 and I'm done with crashing on couches. Few things are more precious to me anymore than sleep and I get little enough of it under the best of conditions.

I came close to choosing the B&E solution of just staying at a hotel, but that seemed a bit perverse given that the whole point of coming is to spend time with folks. I knew I'd laze away the mornings wherever I was. At a home, that's a great opportunity for low-key one-on-one interaction and it's silly to squander it.

As it turned out, the person who most benefited from that was my stepmom because Dad's illness (chronic heart failure) has him sleeping up to twenty hours a day. The single most relaxing day was--paradoxically--the same day I had my lapsus. I spent part of my morning helping her find a place for Christmas Eve dinner, which resulted in us uncovering an unknown-to-us Brazilian restaurant which has been on the South Side for 25 years(!). We had a lovely brunch and then just killed time in the city until she dropped me at my sister's.

Mom got the most shortchanged, which is how I ended up waiting with her at the hospital on Christmas Eve Day morning while my brother had his ECT. I don't have much guilt from that, but what I do have I think I can work off by taking a short vacation with her one of these days.

Saturday morning I decided to get a little creative with my calisthenics and do something I used to do routinely, namely lie prone and lift my upper body. But I guess I should have stretched first because I felt something pop on my right side and was like, "That's not good." Fortunately it didn't really start to cramp my style until the next day so I was able to finish cleaning the house for my cocktail guests.

It was rainy and nasty so there were a lot of cancellations, but also a couple pleasant surprises. The neighbours said they'd be too tired to do more than pop by but actually stayed for a couple hours. And during the afternoon I got a brief message from an unlabeled number asking to come. I knew it had to be someone who'd been over before so I played along and all turned out well.

Bear Night was pretty well attended, and there were plenty of cute daddies. Interestingly, all the ones I chatted with turned out to be local--really local, as in a few blocks away. I guess I've seen them before and they haven't really registered? I played around with two of them, one of whom did that manœuvre I'm beginning to get used to where things are going well, you decide to take a break, and then he just wanders off without explanation.

I'd been hitting the whisky hard and felt it the next day but I still managed to drag myself down to the Christkindlmarket for St Nick's supplies. The line at the Sweets Castle was crazy short, as was the one at the food booth next to the pigeonwarmer. Unfortunately I had to wade through a sea of morons to get to each spot.

I couldn't find the crêpeurs so I tried the raclette stand at the entrance. It was a good choice. Two women saw me struggling to take a photo while molten cheese was running down my hand so one stepped in and got some great shots of me licking it off my hand. That will make the thirsty boys happy. There was a really cute dad in cords who I checked out until I felt well and truly creepy. I took off just as it was starting to sprinkle and made it home before any real rain.

The rest of the day was taken up by naps, social media, cat cuddling, and reading. As I was eating a makeshift evening meal, I saw that Pasillero had gotten in touch. I felt unprepared--I hadn't expected a text before Monday morning--and I only reluctantly started chatting but by the end we were flirting like pervs. And while that was happening, one of the other guys who I thought had blown me off definitively got in touch so who knows what's up with that.

If I were a superstitious sort, I'd consider my attempts to prepare for Christmastide ill-starred: The one light I tried to put up was broken, I almost burst into tears at the Christkindlmarket, and the Advent wreath stubbornly refuses to stay lit. But I will not be discouraged.

Last year, I didn't decorate at all, apart from maybe one string of lights on the mantlepiece. I did hang stockings; I remember convincing the Old Man to let me empty his and surprising him with a piece of panforte. Not doing that this year. One stocking at the fireplace is even more pathetic than none at all.

But St Nick still makes his rounds at work, so a trip to the Sweets Castle was a necessity. The German-speaking bear group was due for another meetup, so I convinced the organiser to plan it for the Christkindlmarket. What I didn't know at the time is that crowd scenes wig him out--and it was gorgeous weather, so quite crowded indeed.

Nevertheless, I managed to score us a table and hold it against hungry glares until Nuphy arrived uncharacteristically late. Pflegetaube joined us shortly after, announcing that with him our complement was complete. We got in a good hour of German practice, though it grew awkward near the end when an unattached gaffer in a Harley Davidson jacket came and sat next to us. Gemütlichkeit is all good and well until it undermines my Uebung.

Nuphy hung around for a while longer, browsing the booths with me for gifts for his son-in-law, but I was all alone at the Sweets Castle. One of the first things to cross the line of my vision inside was a gingerbread heart decorated with the label "Kätzchen" and a Hello! Kitty. Were Monshu alive, no question, it'd be in hiding at home now in anticipation of its unveiling Thursday. Instead I just sighed and tried to concentrate on the hollow chocolate Santas nearby.

But that place is a minefield; if I wasn't confronting treats I'd like to buy for him (macaroons, marzipan bars, Weinbrandbohnen), I was seeing things I'd normally take home with me to St Louis. Fortunately, the shop wasn't crowded, but the square outside was almost literally packed with people. I spent several minutes fighting my way out then found a quiet place behind the tents to regain my composure.

Earlier in the day, I'd gone looking for a festive light Monshu bought me consisting of a glass brick with an image of cardinals in snow plastered to one side and a hole drilled in the back for a tree bulb. In trying to adjust the socket, I pushed it too far into the hollow interior. Egal, I thought, as long as it still lights. It doesn't. [Postscript: Fiddling with it this morning, I found a solution which did actually involve shattering anything. Still need to find a replacement bulb though.]

I'd hoped to get in a nap when I got home to compensate for staying up much too late after Bear Night, but a side trip to a clothing store to try to distract myself from my lugubrious mopery took longer than I thought (and left me with only socks to show for it) and it was already 3 p.m. I decided to kill an hour at chores before heading to the lake watch the supermoon rise. At least that went to plan, though the moonrise itself was a bit of a dud. It was more spectacular after clearing the cloud bands pillowed on the horizon. I couldn't think of a poem to recite so I tried composing my own but got stymied trying to find an ending.

Finally, toward bedtime, I wiped down a tray and set up the candles I'd pulled out of the pantry earlier. (The trip down to Gethsemane to get greenery never happened.) First the grill lighter I keep in the front hall sputtered until it died without ever setting the candle alight. So I got the spare and discovered that it was really the candle's fault. Several minutes of heating it and pouring off wax finally got it to the point where the wick could hold a flame for a few minutes before extinguishing itself. I decided that was good enough and called it a night.

monshu also came down with something this week so I wasn't expecting any kind of fuss for Epiphany. I was totally prepared to be warming up a potato pie from Sunday and instead came home not only to baked halibut and sweet potato risotto but a tremendous nut-brown roscón de Reyes. Naturally, I found the coin, though my one official act as King was to take down the tree--ceremonially, that is, which is to say I removed the finial and extinguished the lights. Later I returned and put away the most important ornaments but lost steam before it came to wrapping all the glass baubles in tissue.

I also got to play Rex Magus at work, since the nameplates I'd ordered before New Year's came in and I made a point of delivering them personally in order to bask in everyone's delight. (Honestly, it really is the small things.) I also had something more personal to give away, my 2013 edition of Best European Fiction. I'd been talking it up to a Bosniak coworker and finally just decided to gift him with it. First, though, I had to make a push to finish the last dozen stories or so. I tackled most of them over break, but still had two unread as of Tuesday night, so I read one on the ride in (Eloy Tizón's "El mercurio de los termómetros") and the last (Ray French's "Migration") at work only moments before handing it over.

He and I both agreed what we'd really like to see is a bilingual edition, because neither of us can read all the languages represented but we could each make a serious dent. That's too specialised a market for a paperback, however, but would be easy enough to do electronically if not for the fragmented way in which foreign language rights are parcelled out. In any case, with that off my plate, I'm poised to make a final assault on the last quarter of Gösta Berling and select my next victim.

If the Winter Solstice were my holiday rather than Christmas, then I know just how I'd celebrate it: keep every light in the house burning to banish the darkness, invite a bunch of people over, and stay up until dawn telling stories. But destroying my sleep schedule is the last thing I need to be doing while dealing with the stress of travel and family. As it is, I didn't even get six good hours sleep last night. Will I be able to catch any z's on the train today? Who knows!

The Old Man wasn't in the mood for coca this year, but it just wouldn't be New Year's without me ruining my back wrestling with some sort of dough, so I decided to make oatcakes to compliment the Scottish smoked salmon he picked up for us. Much as I liked the look of this recipe in the Graun, I didn't even know what "pinhead oats" were, let alone whether we had any on hand. (Apparently they're the same as the steel-cut oats we make our porridge from.) Moreover, I did not feel like translating from the metric.


So I just used the recipe on the side of the box, decreasing the sugar slightly (and substituting brown) and doubling the baking powder (like monshu's grandmother always did). I'm quite happy with the results, though I think they needed a skotch more time in the oven. If I made them again, however, it would be worth buying a proper steel cake cutter. I tried using an old honey jar of appropriate dimensions, but even after switching to the plastic lid it was hard to cut through to the board.

The Old Man whipped up some horseradish cream to affix the fish with. Then he prepared a simple dish of fresh tagliatelle with oil, garlic, and anchovy and some chard with almonds and raisins. There's still plenty leftover for me to make a side of greens to accompany the hoppin' john I plan to fix for lunch. He also introduced me to the Laphraoig "Triple Wood" now that the bottle is nearly empty. (Mallachdan!)

Afterwards, he toddled off to bed exhausted. (Foreseeing that outcome, I insisted he open his Hogmanay gifts before the meal.) I went down to soak my back in hot tub for long enough that I could face the half-mile walk over to my friend the Ewok's place for his little shindig. I was underdressed for the cold, but it was only on the way back that I noticed it.

If there was any doubts about the extreme nerdiness of the gathering, they were quashed after the ball-drop when one of the young otters switched on Dragonball Z and half the crowd were transfixed by it. But I can't complain too much, since without him I would never have known about let alone seen Nick Offerman's full erect frontal in Deadwood. (It also didn't hurt that he was cute as a fucking button with his bowtie and Ruttles-snug slacks.)

When I got back, monshu was up for me to fill in on every silly detail. Can't say I'm thrilled with the note this year is starting on, but the fact is he's still here, I'm still here, and that's what matters.

As flight delays go, it was really nothing to complain about. Instead of being the death of slow cuts I'm used to, it was nicely straightforward: shortly before 2 p.m., I got a message that my 5:35 flight would be departing at 7:50 that evening. At 5 p.m., they were still saying it would depart at 7:50. So even though I was only guaranteed a seat if I was physically in the terminal at the time of scheduled departure, I hung around Sis' house until about 6 p.m. and had no more time to kill at the airport than normal.

I almost wished for a little more after bantering with the cheery white-haired man in the Steelers cap at the Schlafly's/Past House bar. If only I'd been feeling up to taking a drink off the sweet camp bartender. The worst part of the whole experience was the completely unnecessary panic I put myself through by misreading the Departures board right before entring security. But I was through so quickly it only lasted about fifteen minutes before I reached the gate and discover my mistake. Once again, I even had reason to compliment the agent who gave me my pat-down (taking me immediately, rather than making me stand around awkwardly like Midway seems to make a habit of).

I was able to pack leisurely, see a bit more of the boys before going, and even fit in a couple more games of Ultimate One-Night Werewolf and visit with a couple of BIL's old friends. The evening before, after getting waxed playing Carcassonne, I reminded him of the courtesy he and his wife normally pay of allowing me to win the last game we play together. "Well, this might not be the last," he said. And, sure enough, I won both games today (and would've lost the next one, since I was a werewolf both times and would've been killed outright the next time just on general principle).

All in all, better than expected given the crap-ass start to the day. At first, I thought we'd lucked out of more construction noises, but they simply started an hour later. I was so tired, though, I was able to go back to sleep mid-morning in spite of them, which should've been my first clue something was not quite right. By the time Dad arrived to take me to lunch, I knew skipping my zinc yesterday had been a mistake and my cold was not amused at being held at bay so long. Perversely, he decided to take me to a sports bar known for its meat-loaded deli sandwiches; I had potato pancakes and a salad, did my best not to lose my voiced shouting over the din, and counted the moments until we were back in the car.

I probably would've felt just as miserable at the zoo with the young'uns, but at least it would've gotten me out into the sunlight and unnaturally warm air. (The high today was over 10°C.) Dad was as low-energy as me, but he's in at least his third month of it. At least he did have a chance to show me the waterscape he's working on, but it was a little depressing to see how modest its size was given how long he's been working on it. It's sad to see an man as active as him losing his vigour. (He thinks he'll bounce back to where he was as soon as the infection's gone and his course of antibiotics is finished; I'm not so sure.)

The crowning luxury of the day was being met at the airport by bunj and e. and ferried back home. monshu was coincidentally waking up right as we arrived, but twenty minutes or less of chat drained him and sent him back downstairs to sleep some more. Something about his medication is not quite right if it's wiping him out like this. His appetite is gone again and I think a call to his primary is in order--except he's still in Pakistan and it will have to be the covering doctor. Still, much easier to do that from here rather than 300 miles away.

BIL took the boys home before us so Sis and I could do a little more to help Stepmom cleanup from Christmas Eve dinner. We opened the door to find a handlettered note on a stool reading "Cookies this way!→". This turned out to be the first in a series culminating in a pair of notes next to a plate of cookies and a container of carrots helpfully advising Santa "The cookies˅and milk are for you and the carrots are for the rendeer (note: give one glass of milk for the rendeer)". The sheer amount of overthinking which went into the project is so recognisable to me from my own precocious childhood that an hour later I can't stop smiling.

The paella was a success; I managed to get through the whole preparation without my back giving out once. It helped that we had our whole village on the task: my sister stirred, my brother minced, SIL watched a pot of broth. We forgot only one ingredient, and it was once of the least essential (parsley). We learned a lesson about not getting the seafood from the Chinese market on Olive; the mussels and crab legs from Dierberg's were ultimately a better buy.

Perhaps because he'd run himself ragged trying to find that one gift for my youngest nephew, striking out at three different stores, Dad managed not to get into it with anyone. We ate too much, we laughed a lot, and my Stepmom gave me my first official wedding gift. All-in-all, I'm pronouncing Phase 1 of Project No-Stress Christmas a resounding success.

It wouldn't be a proper visit with my family if it didn't involve at least one madcap trip to a store involving (a) erroneous directions; (b) awful weather; (c) a pressing deadline; or (d) all three. In this case, the driver was my mother (who didn't bother to write down the address and--despite having lived here almost here entire life--didn't realise Broadway is one-way through downtown), the weather was rain, and the deadline was a five o'clock closing time for the chef supply store hidden among the warehouses of the Near North Riverfront. Almost by chance, we stumbled upon the converted tractor warehouse now stuffed with wholesale restaurant equipment. Cooking Christmas dinner should be a noticeably less stressful assignment than in previous years.

Unfortunately, I had none of the new equipment while manning the stove tonight. Still, it would've turned out okay had I not been sabotaged by stick margarine (which exists why exactly?) disguised as unsalted butter. So it was one ugly frittata, but it tasted okay, and whatever emptiness left in anyone's bellies after sharing it out with my older brother (who's perfected the knack of being around Sis' place right around dinnertime) was plugged by baklava and Christmas cookies from the large and still growing store tucked behind the stove.

Afterwards we cleared the table for games, but what with trying to get the kids clean as well as put to bed, it was a while before we got started. Still, we had time for two rounds of Survive. I won the first handily, which--as usual--resulted in a target painted on my backside, so I got totally waxed in Round 2. We also had a game of Troyes on Saturday, one of those accounting-heavy German boardgames which appealed to me mostly on account of the ornate board and mediaeval theme.