Vomiting with Rebecca

I’m a power-through-being-sick kind of person. I haven’t been the kind of sick where you can’t get out of bed and need someone to bring you tea and saltines for as long as I can remember.

When you are a kid, you lie limp and moaning, your parents bring you things, let you watch cartoons, and help you hobble to the bathroom. When you are a college student, you skip class and recline in bed all day. When you are a 32 year old teacher with 3 children, life giveth not a shit that you are sick. Not a bit of a shit. No shits.

Here is where it all falls down, too. Because I am what I call “someone who finds the humor in everything,” and my husband calls “someone who is notoriously unsympathetic to sick people.” I learned early in our relationship that he involuntarily prefaces every retch with a noise similar to what a rancher might use to bring in the cattle. It is physically impossible to resist laughing when my husband is throwing up. My heart feels bad for him while my face is giggling its face-ass off.  And then when I am sick he is really nice and takes care of me; which just makes me feel worse.

These experiences do provide opportunities for introspection, though. You can learn things about yourself, such as whether or not you can finish your sentence at the teleconference meeting you are facilitating and hit the mute button before you throw up. I totally can.

Here are some observations I have made through the haze of nausea:

1. Throwing up into a trash bin full of dirty diapers is a sensory experience that I cannot describe.
2. Peanut butter smells gross.
3. Even if they have just WITNESSED YOU HURLING WITH THEIR BEADY LITTLE EYES, small children will still jump on your stomach immediately afterward. They don’t care. And you aren't even allowed to throw them out into the snow. There are laws against it. Imagine you told a full-grown adult co-worker that you had just thrown up in the restroom and that co-worker belted you in the gut. You would murder him or her, am I right? Anyway.
4. Throwing up is like crossing a rope bridge. Don’t look down.  Now is not the time to reminisce about what you have eaten for the past ten hours. Not. The. Time. 

That's all I have for now. I know this one is short; but I'm a sickie. Give a girl a break.

Rebecca Whines About Winter

Holy meth-fueled goat orgies, I hate the cold.

I am aware that this is not that interesting of a topic; but I can’t stop thinking about it. I suspect my cerebrospinal fluid has frozen.

Cold ruins great things. Take Halloween, for example.  You have to choose between integrating winter wear into your costume and freezing your face off. Drinking until you can’t feel temperature anymore doesn't work when you are in charge of a herd of miniature, sugar-charged robots or elephants or whatever.  My plan is to buy one of those sleeping bags that cinches around one’s face in a vaguely pinkish hue, cut the bottom out of it and walk around trick-or-treating as a length of someone’s colon.  Dress the kids as doctors and they can be little proctologists.

I have been asking for a pluggy-inny-type heat rocks for lizards for every gift-giving holiday from everyone I know for as long as I remember. That isn't the sort of gift a lady gets for herself.  So far it hasn't happened.

Once winter sets in, the phrase, “I can’t wear this outfit; it is horrible” leaves my vocabulary, and is replaced by the phrases, “Oooh! THAT’S fuzzy,” and, “More layers. BRING ME MORE! Bwahahahahaha!”

If you ever hear that I was found dead in a dry sauna, just know that I died happy.  Really, really happy. There was probably an upsetting smile on my gross, dehydrated, raisiny face. Dying in a dry sauna is actually on my list of Causes of Death I am At Peace With, alongside items “While Having Sex” and “Of Baklava.”

For those of you who have children, you know that taking them anywhere amid frigid temperatures is surely penance for the more appalling acts you have committed.

 First, make a pile of all of the wintery things you must wrap around said children in order to fend off a Jack-London-style death.

Then, snatch a child from the writhing throng before you.  This is an important choice. Once bundled, this child will instantly be too hot and pissed: choose the child whose wails are the least abrasive, and who isn’t coordinated enough to take his or her own clothes off.

Meanwhile, the medium-sized one will have scattered your carefully collected pile of hats, socks, boots, and mittens to the far corners of the house, and the largest one will declare that she isn’t going wherever it is and flee.

Catch the large one, pin her down with a knee to the chest, cram her in winter garb. Then, using threats of physical violence and/or destruction of her personal property, prevent her from stripping while stuffing the medium-sized one’s wiggly little arms and legs into boots and mittens. Now everyone should be sweaty and weeping softly.

Small and Medium under each arm, Large held in thrall by threats hissed through gritted teeth: to the auto. This is the worst part. While your children sit comfortably in the preheated car, you complete the ten-minute-long process of buckling them in while your rump is collecting snow. That, and your jeans are riding down and your traaaaaaaamp staaaaaaamp is chilly.

I guess the point of all of this is: I hate the cold, and I plan to be in a bad mood until spring. So don’t talk to me or even make eye contact until it is at least seventy degrees out. You may think I'm looking at you; but I am seeing you as a tauntaun from The Empire Strikes Back. I may try to take out your guts and use you as shelter. Mkay.

The Post that Gets Rebecca Fired (or, "On Teaching Online")

Okay, not really. At least I hope not. 

It is just that it is really difficult to write a humorous article about your current employment because the only way to make it any good involves heaping ridicule upon one’s bosses, clients, or co-workers (hi, guys!) and that shit, as I mentioned before, will get you fired.

So we’ll see how this goes.

Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. Except that I routinely use my closed laptop as a means to convey food and beverages from room to room and up and down stairs. That is going to backfire catastrophically at some point.

Teaching online freaking rocks, especially if your hygienic comfort zone is somewhere in the range of “slovenly”, as mine generally is.

The isolation makes us strange, though. It really does. A few times a year we all meet for training. We creep into the hotel ballroom like the munchkins emerging from among Technicolor flowers in the MGM movie The Wizard of Oz. We huddle in small groups, talking about how strange and terrifying all the traffic was.  Everyone’s outfit is elaborately coordinated, as though the product of hours of absentminded contemplation while various programs took forever to load.

Teaching online is like dating online. The extent of the information people have about you is a photo, some email interaction, and your voice in the live classroom setting.

That is a looooooooooooooooot of leeway. Some might argue: too much. Not me, though.

Things I have done while actively participating in staff meetings and/or while teaching a 10^th grade English class:

·         Treated gaping flesh wounds
·         Signed for various incoming parcels and packages
·         Peed
·         Been vomited on
·         Conveyed elaborate instructions to various repairpersons using exclusively body language
·         Pursued a two-year-old in a horse costume down the sidewalk in a rainstorm (my headset has amazing range)
·         Mopped things you don’t want to know about off of the floor
·         Picked out an outfit a la 80’s-movie-style montage

Try any of that shit at your office and see what happens to you.

It is a two way street, though. At any given time, my students can do what so many of us would have given anything to do in the middle of a high school English class: walk the eff away.

And they do. They don’t tell you either. I could not even hazard a guess as to how many times I have wrapped up an eloquent five-minute-long response, (to a question the student asked, mind you) asked if that made sense, and been met with silence.

My solution is to be as strange as possible. My secret hope is that my student’s recently acquired girlfriend is sitting on the couch.

Yeah, babe, online school is pretty okay. I can do whatever I want. It’s pretty sweet.

Then I start singing into the computer microphone.

Oh Tyyyylerrrrrrrrrrr, we really need to finish your eeeeeeeessssssayyyyyyyyy……

Your main points are pretty goooooooooood….

but let’s look at that concluuuuuuuussssssiiiionnnnnn.

Even when they are actually paying attention communication can get a bit snarled.

During one session, while discussing the Civil Rights Movement, I listed several examples of manifestations of Jim Crow laws. Instead of the combination of quotation marks and the end parenthesis I had typed, the program auto-filled a perky little emoticon.

My message read, “Several examples of this were segregated seating on buses, as well as restaurants with signs reading ‘whites only *winky face*.”

As if to say, wouldn’t that be hilarious and fun?

Backpedaling out of an involuntary emoticon situation is something I never thought I would have to do. 

And finally, the three chaos factors that are in perpetual orbit around my desk: the children. These spilling, throwing, smashing, screaming juggernauts are bloody determined to get me fired.

The middle one has been known to  (in the forty five seconds it takes me to get to the restroom and back) climb up onto my desk, grab my office phone, poke the redial button and gibber in her strange alien tongue into the receiver until she sees me running at her. Fortunately, my deranged phone thinks that when you hit redial, you actually want to call the staff member whose extension happens to be the first four digits of the last number you called. And all of the teachers already know I'm weird. 

Nothing derails a live online lesson on citing your sources like a tiny voice saying, Mommee, remember when Ishmael lived in your belly and then came out of your crotch?

Or screaming from the upstairs restroom, 

HEEEEY! THERE’S NO TOILET PAPER FOR MY BUUUUUUUUUUTT!

And so on.

I can state categorically and without guile that there is never a dull day in my line of business. Both in spite of this and because of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

A Very Short Horror Story by Rebecca

The Rat

It all started with an ingrown toenail. Sierra was repulsed by malformations of any kind. The prospect of having to cross paths with an amputee would be enough to drive her to the other side of the street. Even a large scar or a lazy eye would make her shudder and turn away. This was why she ignored and ignored the toe until it was so swollen and throbbing that she could scarcely ease it into a sandal and hobble in to the doctor’s office.

Once there, she flinched and moaned until the doctor, out of exasperation, injected sufficient anesthesia to numb her to all sensation well past her ankle. One would not characterize Sierra as being robust of spirit. Soon, her toe yellow with iodine and packed in gauze, she limped back out to her car.

She arranged her deadened foot safely out of the way of the pedals and got on the highway. To complicate things, she had agreed to house-sit for her brother that weekend, which involved a two-hour-long drive. She had reached cruising speed and the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon to her left when her phone rang in her bag. Her brother.

“Have you left yet? I tried to reach you before you left. I’m sorry. Can you do me a favor?”

“You mean besides watching your house for you all weekend?”

“Har. Yes. Lucifer needs to be fed and I forgot. Will you stop at a pet store and get him a rat?”

“Are you serious? After the day I have already had? I just had minor surgery on my toe!” she snapped.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he said, sounding regretful, “You can cancel on the house. I didn’t know you were injured.”

 She sighed, enjoying making him feel bad for a moment.

“No, it’s fine. Just a gross ingrown toenail. But I’m not buying a rat!”

“Fine,” he replied, “then you can spend the weekend alone in a house with a hungry python.”

“Aarrgh! You are so annoying!” she hit the steering wheel with a fist, “fine! I’ll go buy a disgusting rat for your disgusting snake, you disgusting person!”

And she hung up the phone.

At the next exit that promised commerce, she pulled off and drove around until she found a chain pet store.

“I need a rat,” she mumbled to the perky clerk who asked brightly if he could help her with anything.

“What size would you like? I can let you pick it out,” he chirped, trying to lead her to a cage that was writhing with rodents.

“No! Just get one. I don’t care what size,” she growled, feeling herself beginning to sweat. 

The clerk walked rapidly away. She leaned her weight on her right leg. Her foot did not seem to be coming back to life at all.

“Is this one okay?” asked a voice at her elbow.

She whirled, startled, and found herself face to face with a rat.

It had round, red eyes and huge, yellow front incisors. Its body was covered with thick, coarse, off-white fur. It clung to the hand of the clerk with red, scaled claws, and its repulsive, ropey tail wrapped around his wrist like a serpent.

“Yes! It’s fine!” she shut her eyes, but the image of the rat stayed in her mind.

The clerk calmly put the rat into a small cardboard box, closed it, and punched holes in the top and sides with a pair of blunt scissors. Immediately, the rat stuck his nose out of one of the holes.

“It can’t get out, can it?” she asked, and the clerk just stared at her.

Sierra paid and limped away as fast as she could, panic and humiliation washing over her in waves.

Sierra put the box in the passenger seat. The rat was completely contained, but the mere sight of the box made her jumpy.

Once again, she arranged her numb foot on the floor board, and put the key in the ignition. Back on the highway, she turned on the radio, hoping to take her mind off of her cargo. She managed to find a station with some pop country that came in distant and fuzzy.

Sunlight was beginning to fail and headlights were winking on in cars all around her when she heard it. A slowly, steady grinding sound. Of course! The perfect ending to the perfect day. Car trouble. 

She snapped off the radio and tipped her ear toward the dashboard, trying to find its origin.

Suddenly Sierra felt a chill. She realized where the grinding sound was coming from.

 It was the box.

The rat was chewing the box. But something about the sound was terrifying. 

It wasn't the frantic attempts of a primitive creature that smelled its own death in the corners of its cardboard prison. No; it was the slow, methodical execution of a plan. The rat was slowly, steadily, gnawing at the box. It was only a matter of time. The rat was going to escape.

And it seemed to know it.

Sierra screamed and swerved. Her breath came quickly.

Grind, grind, grind.

At this point it was nearly dark. The interior lights of Sierra’s car had gone out long ago. She realized with mounting panic that very soon she and the rat would be in a completely dark car together. She rolled down the window, ready to fling the box to the will of the Fates in the median of the highway.

She took a deep breath and shifted her anesthetized foot. She was being irrational. The cardboard box was thick. It was just a rat. She had about an hour left in her drive. Surely the box would last that long.

Grind, grind, grind.

She leaned back in her seat and stepped on the gas. Everything was going to be fine. As if to confirm this, the grinding, gnawing sound abated. The prisoner had given up. She imagined it curled inside the box, placidly awaiting its doom.

But…what if it had stopped chewing, not because it had given up, but because it had already escaped?

She reached out to touch the box, to check if was still sound. But then she recoiled, imagining the rat, crouching on top of the conquered box, its nose quivering through the darkness toward her outstretched hand…

She shrieked again, resolving to pull off at the first exit and drive to the sanctuary of a lit gas station. But the miles were desolate, and the signs on the side of the highway gave no hope of rescue.

As minutes passed, her heart thundered and her imagination went wild. Her mind began to vividly animate the rodent's escape. She was sure the rat was perched on the back of her seat, slinky tail wrapped around the head rest, filthy claws clinging to the upholstery, whiskers nearly brushing her neck…

But then she heard it- grind, grind grind.

The sound sent ripples of relief through her taut and shaking body. The rat had begun to chew the box again. The gnawing noises sounded softer and wetter than before. The box was probably nearly shredded, but at least she knew where the rat was. She was twenty-five minutes from her brother’s house, surely the box would last that long.

Sierra sat up straight and drove, strangely soothed by the foul, moist sounds of the rat gnawing at its soggy and disintegrating prison.

At last, she turned onto her brother’s street, thinking how she couldn't wait to take a shower. Even her jeans were soaked in sweat.

As she pulled up to his house, and the motion-sensing light snapped on, Sierra began to scream. In the yellow light she would see that her jeans from the knees down were black with blood. Shredded gauze, sticky with clotted yellow matter littered the floor.

Five pointed, white bones protruded from a tangle of flesh. The rat, now slick and crimson with gore, perched, satiated, on the ruin of what had once been her left foot.

Babysitters: A Call to Arms

People with kids hate people without kids. Sorry, but it’s true. You say cruel things like, “We watched the best movie the other night,” and, “Look at my new sweater!”

We like other people with kids, especially as babysitters. You are nonplussed when my daughter tries to convince you that she is allowed to play outside with no pants on. You get us.  But it is that uncomfortable affection; when you are keenly aware that both parties are a tiny bit lame. Like making friends with someone in your chess club. Or at a They Might Be Giants concert.

Then there is a third group. Couples who want, or are planning to have, or just really really like kids. They are the types who actually look at, like, and even comment on the legions and legions of kid pictures that we put up on Facebook (which, if we were honest with ourselves would acknowledge are nearly identical) . They too are great babysitters. They are fresh meat, not all leathery and tired and gamey like parent-meat.

Ah, babysitters. There is a special place in paradise for you. With a chocolate fountain and…I don’t know what people like…fuzzy socks? One of those scooped-out watermelons but full of cocaine? I’m just trying to make everyone happy here.

But let’s be clear: the interview process will be rigorous and harrowing. I AM scrutinizing you. I didn't haul those things around in my guts for ten months each for you to go and drop them on their heads or let them get into the moonshine. Wait, what moonshine?

So, the interview.

Don’t swagger. Don’t act all self-assured.  Don’t say, “I've got this. Don’t worry about a thing. You guys go have a good time.”

Arrogance is ignorance. And ignorance…that shit will get you killed.

Among your charges is a child who once closed herself in the bathroom, stripped naked, and began systematically dumping water down a heating duct into the expensive, expensive furnace below.

Among your charges is a child who took off her own diaper, then peed, then tried to run from the pee and slipped, crashing to the ground, and lay there, writhing and flailing, resembling the hardwood-and-urine version of a snow angel.

Among your charges is a child who silently and in plain sight built an elaborate structure, climbed it, and crashed through a screened window six feet down into the bushes below, practically at the feet of three adults and two dogs with judgy eyes.

I am stopping myself here; but I could go on and on.

The point is, when you arrive at my door to babysit, there should be a sheen of panic-sweat on your forehead. You should be pallid; your voice should be quavering. A damp, wrinkled notecard of emergency numbers should be clutched in your shaking fist; you should be unable to meet my gaze.

Then you are ready.

On the other end of the spectrum, I also will be reassured by seeing any or all of the following:

• Paperwork documenting your experience wrangling vicious simians
• You solving a Rubik’s cube reallyreallyfast
• An up-to-date hypnotist license
• The blow gun and tranquilizer darts you are willing to use if things get out of hand
• A resume that includes foreign diplomacy
• Scars of any kind

Even with these credentials, every fifteen minutes or so you’re going to want to cup your hand under the middle child’s chin and say, “Pit it out. Pit it out right now.” You know, just to be proactive. Because you can never tell with that one.

Good luck, and we’ll see you on the other side.

Bartending Tip: Upsetting Inedible Garnishes

I do not have the time or money to host sexy cocktail parties.

I will, however, tell you how you can make your (presumably mediocre) sexy cocktail parties better.

While other cocktail party hosts are googling “simple syrup” or jamming sprigs of lavender into vodka bottles, you can make your party the most memorable of them all with this one easy concept:

Upsetting inedible garnishes.

Limes can suck it. There are myriad random objects that can be used as garnishes. They will confuse and alarm your guests. They will have lasting, vivid memories of your party that will surface later in some therapy session.

Here are just a few ideas to get you started:

1. Dismembered doll bits: this idea is cost-effective, because one doll can go a long way. Also, no one ever forgets finding a Barbie leg in his or her Tequila Sunrise.
2. Unpaid traffic tickets folded into various origami creatures. This one has layers, man.
3. I don’t recommend putting anything in the actual drink unless you have guests sign some sort of waiver first. But if you must, I think plastic aquarium plants or old house keys would be fun.
4. A fishing float: if your guest nervously asks if there is any additional tackle in the drink, dart your eyes back and forth and walk away without answering. 
5. Cicada exoskeletons.
6. Tape an inflated balloon to the rim of the glass. At first it seems festive; but it makes the cocktail impossible to drink with any dignity.
7. Old hotel key cards: use a box cutter to make two parallel cuts about two inches long so that the key card will sort of clip to the rim of the cocktail glass. Give the person you serve this drink to a long, sultry look and whisper a random room number. Hopefully the recipient will make it all the way to the hotel like an idiot before he or she realizes how odd it is that you got a hotel room when the party was at your house.
8. False eyelashes. I couldn’t even type that without gagging.
9. Ominous Tarot cards.
10. *Somehow* affix the string and tag from a tea bag to the rim of the cocktail glass, giving the impression that perhaps Bloody Mary and Earl Grey are getting frisky in there.

If you decide to actually try any of these ridiculous concepts out there in what we perceive to be reality, I hope that  a) no one presses charges, and b) you have the good sense to tell us all about it in the comments.

Cheers!

Mushrooms & Polenta

I have observed that cool people occasionally have recipes on their blogs. I want to be cool. Here is a recipe. I made it up.

Go get:

1 ½ cups of corn meal

½ lb white mushrooms per serving

Some coarsely chopped onion

Some coarsely chopped garlic cloves

Some butter

Some balsamic vinegar

Some goat cheese

Some delicious herbs that you enjoy (fresh)

Salt

I know these amounts are vague; but the ratios are really about personal taste. I don’t presume to know how into balsamic vinegar you are.

Mkay. The thing about this recipe is, the two main parts A) take forever, and B) have a nice long counter life. Therefore, you can make them one at a time in whichever order you wish, or, you can try to multitask and make both simultaneously. You can’t lose.

Part 1: Polenta

Apply some sort of lubricant to a 9 x 13” casserole dish.

Bring 5 cups of water to a boil in a stockpot. Add, I don’t know, maybe 2 tsp salt? I never measure and also never add enough salt to my polenta.

Here is the hard part. Somehow, slowly sprinkle the cornmeal into the boiling water while stirring constantly. I have tried a whisk, a wooden spoon, and an electric mixer. I have tried putting the corn meal in a sifter and stirring with the other hand. None of these scenarios could be labelled a success. You are going to burn yourself on this step. Just come to terms with it.

Turn the heat down and keep stirring until it is smooth. Pour it into the casserole dish and smooth the top with a spatula.

It doesn’t take long at all for the polenta to set up. Poke it for fun and also to check it. Cut it into squares, or if you are feeling fancy, use a biscuit cutter to make cute little circles.

Brown each side of the polenta. This takes FOR-E-VER!! I recommend using a griddle: a buttery, buttery griddle. Then you can do a bunch at a time. The sexy toasty corn smell when they start to brown is totally worth the INSANE AMOUNT OF TIME THIS STEP REQUIRES.

Part 2: Delicious Mushroom Stuff

Clean and do whatever you do to mushrooms. Stem them, quarter them, slice them, leave them whole:  I authentically don’t care. Sauté them over medium heat in a fat of your choice. I like a nice blend of butter and olive oil.

Bout ten minutes in, add the onion and garlic. This is so they will still have texture and structure at the end.

After a bit (I don’t know how long because I don’t know how hot your stove is and how you cut up your mushrooms) the mushrooms will start emitting their mushroomy juices. Add more butter or olive oil, and a decent amount of balsamic vinegar. The sauce consists of the mushroomy juices, butter, and balsamic vinegar, so consider that. Also, if your heat is too high, some of the balsamic vinegar will evaporate instantly into your face and make your eyes all watery and tingly.

Reduce the liquid until it is a little thicker. You can also use flour or cornstarch if you’re into that.

Now to plate this business.

Put down a piece of sexy toasty polenta. Ladle the mushrooms, onions, garlic, and sauce over.  Now do you see why I was vague about the amounts? Mushroom stuff to polenta ratio.

Now top with big glorious chunks of goat cheese and your favorite fresh herb, coarsely chopped (or hand torn, if you are that variety of d-bag). My first choice is basil; but thyme is also quite nice.

OR, if you are feeling ambitious, fry whole sage leaves in half an inch of canola oil for 10-20 seconds. Really no more than 20 seconds. They burn. Your mother in law will not be impressed by your burned sage leaves. She thinks you’re strange enough as it is. Pull them out with chopsticks and drain them on a paper towel.  Arrange artfully atop.

Because of its low protein content, this is really more of a side dish. Perhaps you could main dish it up by putting the whole situation on a bed of arugula and topping it with a nicely-cooked cut of your favorite mammal or fowl. (Favorite EDIBLE mammal or fowl. This dish is good; but it isn’t pet-butcherin’ good.)

Or, God forbid, tofu.

Nom nom nom.