Sickness and Health (and a Preview)

I’m not sure exactly how this post will flow (ignore supposed transitions) since I’m going to double post it—both here on Joe Average Writer and on Fatty’s Blubber Blog. The rare few who frequent both sites don’t need to bother with reading it twice. But I guess those of you who are anal enough to do it…can…I guess. I’d just recommend another hobby…or therapy.

Back from the tangent now: yesterday I came back from being on the sick wagon. No, I didn’t stuff myself with too much turkey or stuffing or pie (mmm…pie) or any birthday treats. Believe me, or not, I’ve held my eating in check at the start of this birthday/holiday season. More on that in a moment.

Last Friday night, Sariah got sick in the bathtub. Gross, I know. Then around one in the freakin’ a.m. Zac wakes me up, and says, “Dad, I barfed. Could you help me clean it up?” Give him credit—he wasn’t covered in puke. He even made sure he made it to the bathroom. However, he didn’t quite make it to the porcelain. An explosion of not-so-well-chewed bean with bacon soup covered the entire bathroom floor. The backsplash made it halfway up the tub and cabinets, behind the toilet and up the far wall at least six inches. How he escaped the blast zone without any on him, I’ll never know. And he was too asleep to register anything.

Two nights later Amy and Brooklyn both tossed their cookies (on Amy’s b-day, even), and my stomach started having issues. I must point out here that I never bowed to the porcelain god, but I still offered tribute, if you know what I mean. Needless to say, I am tired of cleaning up chunks of chicken and pineapple and cheese (and bile). And I am tired of not getting much done.

So, to remedy that period of barfiness, and to celebrate my (relative) health, Amy and I have finished the initial version of our independent study course revision, I have turned in the last of my (also pukey) stats homework, and I have been able to do some planning for when my student teacher jumps ship next week. One thing I have not done is work on my NaNoWriMo novel. Yes, say it. I’m bad.

Now, back to Thanksgiving and birthdays and food and such. This year, for the month of December, I am going to post a picture and recipe of “Food That Makes Me Happy.” Yes, you smart-aleck, that could include most, if not all foods. Yes, the title also sounds a little childish, but do you know what? I don’t care. This time of year is one for reliving those cherished childhood memories of Christmas, those indelible moments that will never vanish no matter how hard we try to erase them…oh, I mean, those moments that will bring us joy throughout our whole lives. Now that I’ve cheesed it up enough for you (more, fresh Parmesan or cracked pepper, sir?), here’s a taste of what is to come, because Thanksgiving makes me happy. In fact, it’s my favorite holiday, I think, but I’ll write about that another time. For now, enjoy the picture. I’m not going to give a recipe today. That’s for December.  Just don't lick the screen.  That's gross.

This delectable plate, by the way, includes turkey of both the light and dark variety, real mashed potatoes, yams, sausage and apple stuffing, homemade bread, cranberry sauce, pond scum, gravy, carrots, sweet pickles, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet bell peppers, and black olives. Pie was later.

P.S. I lost six pounds, too.

Memory of Erica Young

I'm just checking to see if this new account will allow me to post. It's just another sample from today's writing prompt (see previous post).

First grade. One particular afternoon, after I had packed the remains of a smooshed PB and J back into my metal Empire Strikes Back lunchbox, Mrs. Latch had us push back our desks so there was room to do “Mousercise.” This was back when Jazzercise was fast becoming popular and I guess, we were doing the Disney version to songs from The Jungle Book and other favorites. I hated it with a passion. There are very few times when I have felt like a complete idiot in school. This was one of them. But this story is not about Mousercise or Mrs. Latch or me. It’s about Erica Young and what happened after Mousercise on that particularly muggy Arkansas afternoon.

You see, after we returned our desks to their original positions, we were supposed to read independently for a few minutes. I sat on the far side of the classroom, the opposite corner from the teacher’s desk. Since it was my favorite at the time, I think I was reading Where the Wild Things Are. Most of the details are a little hazy. However, I have one vivid memory of that day.

I looked up from my book, toward the teacher’s desk in search of a tissue. In my line of sight, right in the middle of the room, sat Erica Young. And when I saw her, I held my breath and the world slipped into slow motion. Now, before you make any assumptions, Erica was not my first grade crush. She was way too skinny—skeletonesque would be more accurate, with sunken eyes, and on a good day, you would describe her as undernourished. Her long, dark tangled hair hid her face most days. Erica hardly dared speak a word; in fact, I don’t ever really remember hearing her talk. But on that day, just like most other days, she wore a maroon velvet dress with white lacy trim around the collar and black dress shoes.

I think I remember the details so clearly because on this particular day, Erica’s face was not hidden. In fact it stood out—a pale greenish yellowy sallow color that I didn’t have in my Crayola pack. And then it turned white. And then her mouth opened. Projectile vomit bounced once on her desk, once on the next desk, and then splattered onto the carpet.

Erica didn’t make a sound. Mouth and nose and hair now dripping, she put her head down and sobbed. I had never seen anything like it. It bounced! By the time I remembered to breathe, Mrs. Latch had wiped my classmate’s face free from snot and sick and tears, napkined the remaining chunks from her lap and desk into the trash, and had taken the poor girl down to the office. She didn’t come back for over a week.

And I didn’t even begin to describe the smell.

Can't Get Rid of Me That Easily

I think I spoke too soon last night. At approximately 6:20 this morning I completed the cycle and paid my obeisance to the porcelain goddess. It hit me with such a punch that I was literally brought to my knees. I haven't felt so sick since I lost an appendix. Now, I've been able to keep everything down that I've eaten, which is a whopping two saltines and a glass and a half of orange-flavored Powerade. Scrumptious!

While I was in my vomit-induced stupor today, we also had furnace troubles. Today, I am thankful for good, honest heating and A/C servicemen. Tom was probably the only repairman we've had who hasn't tried to con us into buying a new furnace or anything that would cost us thousand of extra dollars. If anyone needs an honest repairman, let me know. I'd be glad to give you his number.

Instead of puking in a freezing house, I can stew in warmth and sickness (but I am feeling much better).

Almost Missed One

Okay, I confess that I had shut down my computer for the night when I realized that I hadn't posted. See how my mind is working tonight? Blah. I'm thankful I didn't yak just now. How's that? (Although I would probably feel better if I did.)

Barf!

“I love writing—the process, the creativity, the ability to vomit my thoughts onto paper and rearrange the chunks, the phlegm, and all the other goopy nastiness (I don’t remember eating carrots?) that shows up.

“The ability to manipulate words and create images and stir feelings is power. Writing becomes a forum for thought, a format in which ideas are scooped up, molded, and solidified, and then thrown into the kiln only to explode, forcing you to rise from the ashes and create again. It forces you to learn.”

These are two metaphors that I mixed during a quickwrite a few weeks ago for my EdD seminar. The professor asked us to quickly jot down about our feelings toward writing. Most wrote about fear or bad memories of writing endless papers. I, junior high teacher geek that I am, had to write about tossing cookies. I’ve actually used that metaphor with my students on several occasions. It was refreshing to hear it used by author Kristen Chandler at the UCTE/LA Fall Conference in her keynote address. She said (more or less) that there are two ways to write draft: vomit it up or bleed it out. Blowing chunks is more my style. Sometimes the feeling, the idea just eats at you from the inside. Then you have to spew, or you’ll explode. If you don’t find the right receptacle, it’s just a big mess that nobody else wants to clean up. And even if it keeps you up all night, you always feel better after you’ve hurled.

So, in a way, I’m thankful for barfing (and Febreeze).

P.S. I shared my scramble with the class and received a round of applause, but the instructor liked the kiln metaphor better. Oh, well.