One of the weird side effects of being crazy strong is that when something takes you out, you feel like you will fucking DIE.
CONTEXT PLEASE, TRICIA! Okay. Last Tuesday was Celebrate Timucuan Indian Day at the Tyrant’s school. The Timucuan Indians populated Northeast Florida long before bankrupt people began moving here to take advantage of the homestead exemption laws. They (the Indians) marked themselves with cool tattoos and wore elaborate jewelry. Trendsetters!
Since I am a non-contributing co-Room Parent of the Tyrant’s class, I spent five hours that day watching first graders pound dried up corn kernels into corn dust. I also showed them how to throw old cobs through a branch hoop in a primitive game of basketball with a propensity to get out of hand. Really, kids? Is your aim that bad, or was my head just in your way again?
The day wore me out; I had no idea how exhausting the Timucuan lifestyle could be. My dreams of becoming Caroline Ingalls took such a hit that I carted my kids to a fast food restaurant for dinner, where I ate a grilled chicken salad WHICH POISONED ME WITHIN AN INCH OF MY LIFE. I won’t disparage the restaurant, but let’s just say it rhymes with…..Dick Chalet.
I knew as I was eating the salad that it wasn’t very good. The chicken was grayish and room temperature. But I hadn’t eaten all day due to the corn-grinding demands, so I wolfed it down.
Within hours, I had become a living recreation of that projectile vomiting scene from The Exorcist. Hot Firefighter Husband was working, so I had to get the kids off to school the next morning. I literally held on to the counter as I packed lunches. The kids were great…until it was time to leave for the bus and the Pterodactyl FREAKED OUT because he didn’t have a jacket to wear. He had a coat. And a sweatshirt. And a long-sleeved shirt. BUT HE WANTED HIS JACKET, CAN’T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THAT? I was so weak and defeated that I walked his little sister to the bus stop and left him behind. By the time I got back, he had locked every door to the house. I sat on a patio chair and wept.
Finally, I threatened to get the neighbor. He would never want anyone to think he’s preposterous enough to lock his mother out of her own house, so he let me in and said, “What are you going to do to me?” and I said, “Nothing. I’m too sick.” I crawled into bed and texted Husband that I was dying and he needed to get our miscreant son to school.
I laid in that bed for hours. And hours. My joints throbbed. My skin crawled. I developed a fever. Water nauseated me. My jaw felt cemented open. Husband came home to check on me, and
gave me an….. did the stuff paramedics do when they find a sick person. I couldn’t believe he actually x%83 me with the first #8*^@. But despite this professional treatment, he wasn’t optimistic. “You might have to go to the hospital,” he said. I only wanted to go if he thought they’d keep me for a couple of days, and he said he didn’t think so.
Honest to Pepto Bismol, I was unable to stand up unassisted for 18 hours. I choked down a half of a banana at bedtime, and ate a peanut butter sandwich in the middle of the night, signaling my probable survival. I was sick, y’all. The Pterodactyl was so worried he wrote me a long apology letter and kept taking my temperature, which was helpful because no one else could figure out how to use the thermometer.
Today I finally feel human again. No more Dick Chalet for me, though. I hated going there anyway because I couldn’t stomach his homophobia, but now that I can’t even stomach his food, him and me are done with each other.
Subway? Is there a gluten-free menu in your future? Anyway, I’m back. And a tiny bit thinner than I was.