A Sordid Vignette from the Medical Files of Val Thevictorian

Please excuse my rather unappetizing details as I relate the current state of my health.

I developed a splitting headache between the time I arose and the time I sat down in Hick's La-Z-Boy for my morning chair nap. It did not improve when Hick plopped himself down on the short couch instead of dashing back to work after his recent knee surgery. That interfered with the morning routine of The Pony, who usually lays on this couch for few moments between waking and dressing.

Once he saw that he had derailed our well-oiled machine, Hick drove off to work to report that his doctor wants him to take three more weeks off. Which I don't believe is happening.

Even Hick's departure did not make my head feel better. It just felt more like the brow of a Neanderthal. By the time I sat down behind the control center in my classroom, my head felt like an American Pippin in a cider press. I did not want to take a pain-reliever so close to the time I had ingested my daily medication. So I tried to hang on until lunchtime. That meant I needed one thing to get me through until first bell. The vibrator.

The Vibrator is a flat-egg-shaped, smooth plastic holder of batteries and good vibrations. I ripped it out of an airline neck pillow massager. Because all I needed was the vibrator. Originally, I extracted my contraption to use on the back of my neck after my thyroid was ripped out two summers ago. Bet you didn't know that cutting your throat in the front makes your neck hurt in the back, now did you? Seems they shove you to the end of the operating table while you're unconscious, and let your head fall over the edge. The better to cut your throat, you see. I can't thank my surgeon enough for sharing that tidbit on my follow-up visit. Now where was I...

As I powered up my controls, and logged on five times, I held The Vibrator in my left palm and placed it against my forehead. A couple of minutes over each eye, then a couple of minutes under each eye. It was fantastic. If I was a dog, my hind leg would have been twitching. I had to stop five times. Not because the pleasure was too intense. To blow my nose. A regular river of clear, thin snot gushed out of my snout. I had a bubbling source in my sinuses, culminating with its mouth at my nostrils. Snot River. I rank its discovery right up there with the Mississippi and Missouri.

The good feeling lasted about twenty minutes. Then my head returned to being one of those bug-eyed stress squeezers. It stayed like that until I popped an acetaminophen at 11:15, and continued to feel as compacted as a snowball in an L. L. Bean snowball maker until 1:15. When it suddenly faded away.

I am now clear-headed, with a slight wheezing in my chest. More reports from sick bay as symptoms develop.

I've Been Cheated, Been Mis-Cheese-ed

Here I sit, broken-hearted...

Don't worry. I'm not talking about Dutch Ovens or my fundraiser popcorn again. I'm setting the mood. Following a theme. Preparing to share with you the major disappointment that befell me today.

For two days I've looked forward to the school lunch. Don't adjust your trifocals. I'm serious. I have lunch duty all week, which kind of puts the kibosh on cooking anything in my microwave. I need to ship out to the front lines as soon as the 10:53 bell rings. In lieu of bringing a tasteless, soggy baloney sandwich to grab out of the mini-fridge, I have been repasting on fare from the cafeteria line.

Monday, I had two BBQ hamburgers and some chips with salsa. That was the regular meal. I refused the buns. The burgers were pretty much interchangeable with hockey pucks in size and shape. The taste was not bad, but the texture was spongy. My plastic fork kept bouncing off the meat. I had to cut them with a spoon, because knives are not allowed. Needless to say, my mother and her purse are not welcome at our table. The salsa spent the afternoon trying to burn its way out of my belly like Alien blood through metal. So I'm probably not going to consume that meal again.

Today was grilled cheese and chicken noodle soup. I know. They don't really go together. We used to have our grilled cheese with vegetable beef soup. That was fantastic. But now we have a new food supplier, and we get something called a Bosco stick with our vegetable beef. It's a tasteless tube of wheat bread rolled around some tasteless mozarella-looking cheese. But that's neither here nor there, because I'm here to talk about my precious grilled cheese. You know that bacon-marrying dude on the Jack-in-the-Box commercial? There, but for the hand of Hick, go I. To the altar with my grilled cheese, of course. Not bacon. He's taken.

I love our grilled cheese. I've even tried to recreate it at home, with limited success. The harder it is, the more I like it. A good school grilled cheese should sound like the plastic cafeteria tray when you knock in on the lunch table. Hard as a metamorphic rock. That's how I like my grilled cheese. But something went horribly awry today.

THE GRILLED CHEESE WAS SOFT!!!

Call the wahmbulance, because I was nearly screaming like a big, next-to-you-in-an-airline-seat baby over this unexpected development. Most of my colleagues taunt me about my crunchy sandwich preference. But they also made note of the new texture.

"This side of mine isn't even brown!"
"It's soft."
"My sandwich is not the same."
"I can't even trade you, because yours is like that, too."

We can send a man to the moon and back, but we can't make a decent grilled cheese in the oven (with 399 other grilled cheeses) that will have a rock-hard, toasty crust.

I sense a conspiracy.

***DISCLAIMER: I do not blame our cooks. They can only heat up what the supplier ships to them. Perhaps there was a different kind of pasteurized processed cheese food, or different bread, or a new oleomargarine that was the fly in the ointment of my precious sandwich. I'm going to give them one more chance.***

Who Got My Snake Dirty?

It's impossible to have nice things around here. I left my basement office to fetch an important paper from my school bag, and there it was. My snake has a dark footprint on his yellow side. It looks like a footprint. It could be some greasy smudge. But in any case, that's not the way I left him last night.

Oh, it's not a real snake. It's a stuffed snake, chartreuse and red and yellow, about two feet long. The Pony won it for me at the school carnival last year. He actually won two. I have an upstairs snake and a downstairs snake. I wonder if that would make a good TV series: Upstairs Snake, Downstairs Snake. Probably not. But you never know. Ever hear of a show called My Mother the Car? I rest my case.

These snakes are in high demand from my cervical region. That's not some lady part. It's the neck. Cervical spine. The snakes are just the right thickness to fit between my skull and shoulders like one of those airline neck-rest thingamabobbers. Only comfortable. I can squeeze the snake's belly if it's too plump. The upstairs snake sprung a leak of white stuffing, so my mom stitched him back together. Too much belly-squeezin', I suppose.

Every night, or, to be more accurate, the wee hours of every morning, I wake up from my inadvertent chair nap and drape my chartreuse and red and yellow Christmas throw that I won at my sister's New Year's Eve party over the arm of the couch. (Yes. It complements my snake color scheme. You don't think I want the back of my neck to clash with my blankie do you? I leave the blue and orange and yellow snake upstairs.) Upon that throw, I stretch out my snake. So they're ready and waiting for me the next night. You would think they would remain undisturbed. But you don't live in my house.

The Pony flops down on that couch most nights to play games on his laptop and watch the big-screen TV. He claims the other end. He has his own blanket. He doesn't turn on the end lamp unless I'm coming out to join him for one of our special shows, those being Amazing Race, Survivor, Big Brother, and WipeOut. Yes. We're quite the highbrow family. Rarely does The Pony disturb my stuff. He's generally a picker-upper of others' messes.

Hick has been home for a week with his knee surgery. Or his knee that went through surgery. Don't go thinkin' Hick's got an operating theater for freelancing. He was laid up for three days with crutches. Stairs were not his friend. Neither was the proper manner of walking with crutches. But by Friday, Hick had graduated to a cane. And he came down the stairs a couple of times. I'm not sure what goes on when he's home and I'm not. He might have held a car-mechanic hoe-down for all I know.

But one thing I WANT to know is WHO GOT MY SNAKE DIRTY?

The inquisition will start tomorrow. At 6:30 a.m.

Like a Coffee Table Book about Coffee Tables, Perhaps?

I'm so excited! And I just can't hide it! I'm about to lose control and I think I like it. I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it. And I know, I know, I know, I know...

Oops! That's some Pointer Sisters lyrics from my misspent youth. My mind took a holiday there for a moment. Packed its bags, turned off the water, bumped down the thermostat, checked the appliances, locked the doors, loaded the SUV, and pulled out of the driveway at 4:30 a.m.

My excitement comes from the announcements from Linda and Sioux and Dianna that submissions are open for something that I kind of have a knack for writing. In my head, I hear Doolittle Lynn telling Loretta, upon finding out she was pregnant, "You know, we may have found something you know how to do." I hear ya, Doo. Time to get off my duff and start tickling the plastic, burning the midnight monitor. Put my proboscis back on the proverbial grindstone.

At last, I've found a place that might be interested in my stories about revenge flatulence, announcing to the entire waiting area of Little Caesars that I had grown tired of holding my son's balls, hairwads in hot tubs, and perhaps, even kid-unfriendly holiday Peeps with obscene protuberances.

I need to get crackin'!

Regifting a Dutch Oven

Seems like only yesterday that I was touting the joys of my school fundraiser purchase of chocolate-cherry popcorn. Oh. That's right. It WAS only yesterday.

Thanks to my blog buddy, Linda, I now know that my decadent treat not only shoots my blood sugar into the stratosphere, but also blows up my belly like flat tire connected to an air compressor. Though in my case, it was more like a spare tire. I might have figured out the etiology by myself. But Linda shortened my investigation.

When I arose from my recliner shortly before midnight, having fallen into a low-blood-sugar coma after the initial spike, I felt something was amiss. There was a rumbling in my tummy. Not a hunger rumble. Lower. In the vicinity of my large intestine. #2 Colon Avenue, to be precise. The contents were really starting to percolate. Much like chicken nuggets from a school cafeteria lunch, trying to peck their way out by fifth hour. I suppose the deadly gases had been unable to escape due to the pressure of my ample posterior upon the cushion of my recliner. A situation which was remedied upon standing. Gases rushed forth like air from a near-to-bursting balloon. I'm surprised that I did not sail willy-nilly about the basement, corkscrewing, slamming off walls and ceiling until I was completely deflated.

I ran through a quick meal inventory. No beans, no broccoli, no burritos, no cabbage, no cauliflower, no chili. Yes, I'm one of those special people who think in alphabetical order. Since I had not consumed any such foods, I was at a loss as to where my emanations originated. But this morning, Linda put my question to rest.

You all know Val is not one to be pessimistic. A regular ray of sunshine is she. When life gives her lemons, does she not make lemonade? When the universe conspires against her, does she not use the atrocities to regale readers with witty blog posts? Rest assured, Val's digestive system emissions will not go to waste.

I plan to exact revenge on Hick by releasing the excess gas at night, under the quilt which he tucks so tightly around his head while insisting that his breather gives him plenty of oxygen from outside his cocoon. Hick does not realize that several times per night, his breathing mask is shoved asunder. I know. Because I hear the whistle of escaping air. We'll see how long it takes him to sputter awake.

Hick has underestimated my intestinal fartitude for far too long. Let the games begin.

The Sweetest Things in Life Ain't Free

I try to support our students with their fundraisers. If they ask, I will usually buy one of what they're selling. That's how I came to be in possession of some $15 popcorn.

When my seller delivered it this afternoon, I was surprised at its size. Not in the usual way I'm surprised by my fundraiser purchases. Like when I buy the cheapest candy in the catalog, and my $11 nets me a six-ounce box of chocolate-covered cashews because the sugar-free peanut butter cups I chose for Hick were not available. How kind of the company to substitute for me, rather than refund my money.

The popcorn was in a clear plastic tub. It certainly looked like the picture of what I ordered. Only larger. And it was not just any popcorn. Not the buttered, caramel, or cheese that I could get in a big Walmart tin for $10. Nope. This was gourmet popcorn. Chocolate-cherry flavored.

I stashed it away in my cabinet, lest the students get wind of my treat. They are not shy about demanding a taste of whatever they find. Kind of like army ants, they are, devouring everything in their path. I, myself, have not had a problem, because I am too wise to leave consumables in sight. Besides, I run a no-eat, no-drink classroom. It would not be polite to break my own rules. However, I hear tales of violations in other classrooms. Just last week, a student took a ring-pop off a teacher's desk and ate it. Why she had a ring-pop on her desk, I'm not sure. Last year, she had a student pick up her beverage and take a sip through the straw.

My hidden snack made it safely through the day. I sat down to watch TV tonight, and the sweet treat beckoned to me. My resulting tribulations kindled an idea for a new marketing plan. A way for the kids to sell many more tubs of $15 popcorn.

My plan was to pop the top off that bad boy and have a couple of clusters of chocolate-cherry popcorn. Val plans, popcorn laughs. I pried. I twisted. I stretched. I poked. That tub was not compliant with my appetite needs. It mocked me. So close. But so far from snagging my snack. I think I worked up a sweat there in my recliner, wrestling with that hermetically-sealed torture device. I could see the popcorn. Yet I could not get my hands on it. I finally grabbed a mechanical pencil from the end table and took a stab. My implement was not up to the task. I discarded it and snatched a pen. Fine point. That did the trick.

The first bite sent me spiraling into sugar shock. I might just as well have scheduled a late-night house call from a health professional and submitted to a maple syrup IV. I'm not so sure I didn't light out in a frenzied dash around the basement, putting to shame the antics of Aunt Polly's cat, Peter, when Tom dosed him with painkiller. The resulting crash after coming down from my blood glucose spike put me into a four-hour chair nap. That's some powerful popcorn.

I did not know the popcorn would be caramel corn. It was stuck together in blobs, coated with chocolate, drizzled with pink cherry stripes. I highly recommend breaking off one kernel of this confection at a time. It will satisfy your sweet tooth. No need to overdo it.

The student popcorn-pushers should advertise this item as a workout tool. It is so hard to open that many more calories will be expended than consumed if servings are limited to a single kernel per sitting. And just think, the labeling can advertise a thousand servings per container. A good selling point. I suggest they set up shop outside women's fitness centers. Just like the commercials for those tiny one-or-two-bite decadent cakey kind of treats, this gourmet popcorn would sell like hotcakes.

Of course, they didn't have any trouble selling it to me the regular way. But I'm a soft touch for kids trying to earn money to fly to FCCLA destinations.

A Shaving Lesson from Occam

On Tuesday evening, I headed back to school to pick up The Pony from his last regularly-scheduled academic meet. I stopped by the pharmacy to grab some crutch toppers for Hick. He's worth $4.85, don't you think? For entertainment value alone. I know you're thinking, "Well, that must be the gift you give somebody who has everything." Or else you're thinking we're an odd family. That may be. But in case you've forgotten, or in the unlikely event that I kept some personal information to myself...Hick had knee surgery on Tuesday. He used the old crutches with crumbly armpit rubbers that have been hanging on a nail in the garage since his other knee surgery four years ago. No, he's not a professional athlete. More of a chicken kicker. From when he had his flock of seventeen roosters and three hens.

Now where was I...oh, the trip to town. I pulled out on some lesser-used back roads to avoid the Backroads rush hour traffic. A small, dark SUV in front of me kept veering across the center crack. We don't have center lines out here on these town roads. I followed at a safe distance. I assumed that the driver was texting a significant other on the way home. Perhaps seeing if she should pick up something for dinner.

Just my luck, that SUV turned up the street I was using as a connecting route to reach my main road. Again with the swerving. Then it signaled a left turn. Directly into the lane for the drive-up window at a mom-and-pop liquor store.

When you hear hoofbeats, think horses. Not zebras.