My Sickness

I am quite ill.

Practically on my deathbed really. Except I hope not because the bed in my apartment was provided by the cheap-o owners of this complex and it is very hard. So if this is really my deathbed, then I got totally screwed in the deathbed department because I’m going to die on something as hard as a rock.

The bacteria/virus invaded my system early Tuesday morning. I woke up, took one breath and I knew it: I was a victim of the common cold.

When I lived in the dorms as a freshman, I was sick practically from the day I moved in until the day I moved out. Seriously. I got the flu, food poisoning, pink eye, two infections, the cold at least four times, and a discovered food allergies from cafeteria food that I never knew I had. That was all second semester, by the way. I considered it a victory when I went a full week without having to have any nyquil. I’m probably the only kid you know who makes sure her Mom schedules her flu shot because I’ve had the flu and I will gladly take an uncomfortable shot that lasts two seconds over puking for a full week.

In the apartments, me and the roommate have breathing room. So, I’ve gotten two colds this year, but that’s all. Not too bad. Until, that is, The Incident occurred.

About a week ago, I was on the bus. While I hate public transportation, I also hate walking in the cold. Therefore, public transportation lured me into its warm vicinity and forced me to sit next a heavyset male who was listening to his ipod while mouthing along to the words. That should have made me suspicious. I don’t trust people who silently sing along to their ipods. An ipod is a private experience between you and the music. Why should you mouth the words? Are you trying to show off? Am I supposed to sing along too? Why are you bragging that you have an ipod that you can sing too? The whole thing is just a riddle that can’t be solved.

Anyways, suspicious ipod user then sneezed. And I knew it was over. I knew I was going to be sick.

My mother likes to claim that it’s my own fault that I get sick all the time. Technically, she has a point. I have this thing about washing my hands before I eat. As in, I don’t do it. I hate water so, in order to avoid it, I’m willing to take my chances. Of course, now that I can’t breathe out of my nose and I’ve asked my friends if they have any last words to say to me, I’m wishing I would have just used the damn soap and washed away this ridiculous virus.

Getting sick is a little extra rough for me, in my defense though. I work at a hospital, so getting sick means that I can’t go to work. That’s bittersweet, considering it means I get to sleep in instead of working, but I don’t get paid. Also, I’m training for a half marathon, so I have to run five days a week. Getting a cold means I have to take a few days off because I’m running a slight fever and strenuous exercise with a fever means that you know, your heart could fail. I’m trying to avoid that, although with the way this illness is going, that could happen anyways.

I also have an exam tomorrow. But because my head is pounding, I’m finding it difficult to focus. I’ve been trying to memorize three ratio equations since Tuesday. Somehow I think it might just be a lost cause.

My body needs some rest now. It is fighting a losing battle. Please leave your condolences below.

My Letters to the Days of the Week

Dear Monday,

I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re the meanest day of the week and you know it. I don’t even feel bad for you, even though I know everyone hates you, because you suck that bad.

Do you think it’s funny that I have to get up at 7 in the morning on your day? Do you find it entertaining that I spend all Monday working, at classes, tutoring, then have to come home and do homework all night? You’re the worst day of the week because you make me get up early. I just want to sleep. Why can’t you give that to me? I don’t ask for much. But Monday, in your selfish ways, you can’t even give me that.

I will tap dance upon your grave,

Maggie

Dear Tuesday,

I like you more than Monday, but that’s not saying much.

I like that you let me sleep in a little more, but I don’t like that you’re three days away from the weekend. Also, I’m not a huge fan of your television line up. You just don’t have much to offer me, Tuesday. You’re just kinda…blah. I guess the bottom line is there’s no spark between us. At least Monday and I have a passion of hatred towards eachother. With you, well, if we skipped Tuesday, I probably wouldn’t even notice.

Regards,

Maggie

Dear Wednesday,

As a middle child myself, I feel for you. You’re stuck between an average day (tuesday) and a happy day (thursday). You aren’t really noticed, except for during lent when those crazy catholics go crazy over your Fat day. But I do like that when I get to you, I know I’ve always made it.

Of course, that’s really no way to have a relationship. I shouldn’t spend my life trying to “get through” a relationship. I guess overall, I wish you nothing but the best. But then again, like any middle child, if you disappeared, no one would really notice. Including me.

Whatever,

Maggie

Dear Thursday,

Hi! How are you? You’re amazing, do you know that? You’re just like that long lost friend that you only see once in a while but get super excited to see whenever she comes around.

Your television line up is amazing. I get to sleep in on your day. You’re never too busy at the mall. And on lots of Thursdays, I get to go out and visit my friends. Sometimes I have to spend you in the library, but even then, I know that you’re so close to Friday. My door’s always open. Come visit whenever you like.

Love,

Maggie

Dear Friday,

You are wonderful. Sure, I have two classes on you, a full day of work, and typically some type of painful activity at night, but I look forward to you every week. I never do homework on you. I eat horrible on you. I don’t even have to work out on your day! You’re the best. You’re like Christmas eve–filled with anticipation for what the next day will bring.

Love you!

Maggie

Dearest Saturday,

How art thou? I adore thee.

You are the most wonderful day, my love. I love how you smell, I love how you appear out of nowhere and let my boring life become exciting. I love how you let me sleep whenever I want, how you make me study a little, but if I slack off a little, unlike that bastard Monday, you don’t punish me. You just tell me to make it up later.

I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re the most popular, most fabulous day and I’m sure you have millions of fan letters waiting. Just know that I cherish our remarkable bond and I cannot wait to see you soon, my love.

xoxox

Maggie

Dear Sunday,

I don’t really hate you, I just don’t like you. I feel bad for you, being so close to Monday. And I hate that I spend most of you in the library and that you come with a feeling of dread. I guess I just don’t have much to say to you.

Maggie

P.S. since you’re so close to Saturday, will you tell him I love him? And that I cannot wait for him to come as soon as he can! Thanks Sunday, you’re a true friend.

My MRS Degree

I’ve been thinking a lot about the easiest degree at MSU. They don’t technically offer an MRS degree, but I feel like they should. And then I realized I probably wouldn’t be eligible to get one because there’s no way I could pass the required curriculum. Let’s consider the classes needed for a Bachelor of Arts in Being a Mrs:

1. Cooking 201

I can bake cookies, but I can’t cook. We have an oven and lovely pots and pans in my apartment, but I haven’t used them in months. I’m a pro with the microwave and if you need take out, I’m your girl. I can even convince them to speed it up if you’re in a hour. But actually cooking a roast or grilling up some steak? I’m hopeless. And what’s worse is that I don’t care. I don’t need a roast to be happy. So if I took this class, I’d probably pass because I like to eat, but I wouldn’t pass with flying colors. I’m simply too lazy.

Estimated Grade: C

2. Sewing 305

I’m the worst sewer you’ve ever met. I can’t even sew a button. My mom tried to get me to sew pillows over the summer. She eventually just told me to go away because I couldn’t even get the sewing machine to sew a straight line. I’m pathetic. I could go to office hours for sewing class all year long and I’d still only pass because the teacher would feel bad for my poor projects. Kind of like how your mom always says she loves your projects you brought home as a kid, even though she just wishes you’d buy her a damn sweater rather than yet another macaroni necklace.

Grade: D-

3. Breeding 402

I like babies. Babies that can’t talk, can’t run away, and can’t annoy you too much. But children age 1 to 6, i just find obnoxious. They ooze bodily fluids everywhere, they’re never happy, and they cry a lot. Plus, I hate fairy tales. I just do. The story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears is absolutely ridiculous. Seriously. Not only is the whole bears alive thing just too fanatical for its own good, but no little blonde girl is going to be into porridge, especially not enough to try three different bowls before picking her favorite. They’re all gross. 

Grade: C+

4. Trophy Wife 345

I think I’d own this class. Seriously. Flirt with old men, get them to like me, have a few drinks? I’d just show up for the final and rock this class.

Grade: A

5. Wifey 495

This class would show the best wife traits in the world. Rub your husband’s feet, do his laundry, give him positive reinforcement. Yeah, this class isn’t going to go so hot for me. I’m way too selfish to rub someone else’s feet. I don’t even do my own laundry. If the final is how to give your one and only a back massage, I’m screwed.

Grade: D

6. Senior Thesis: What Being a Wife Means to Me

The point of this thesis would be to show how sewing, breeding, cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry would be the best time of your life. I don’t think I could write that. So instead, I’d write about how I’m psyched to get married so I can have someone to vacation with or make excuses to get out of family events with. Or how hopefully the income between me and my husband will be large enough to make sure we can hire someone to do that laundry and order a lot of take out.

Grade: Fail. Off topic thesis.

In the end, I think I’m going to stick with business. Otherwise, my gpa would just go right down the drain.

My State Job

Last summer, stuck deciding between a Pre-law major or an HR major, I ended up with two internships: one with the HR division of an insurance company (thanks, mom!) and another with the House of Representatives, working as legislative intern. 

The district we represented was one of the poorer areas of Michigan and the people that called in were pretty intense. Several called in on a daily basis, including a gentleman named G.

G was a guy who wanted the State to pay for his housing. But, he didn’t just want free housing. He wanted a free apartment in a northern area with its own kitchen, in-suite laundry, allowed pets, covered parking, at least two bedrooms (preferably three, even though there’s only one of him…), and at least two bathrooms. Ad would settle for nothing less. Eventually, I emailed him a list of half-acceptable places in the Upper Peninsula where he could move and then bother a different office. 

Once, in the middle of the summer, a woman called to ask if her application for some funding program was being processed. I asked for her name and social security number, then spent two hours trying to track down the gentleman in charge of the program. He told me that they hadn’t yet received her application. I called the old broad back and asked if she’d applied. She replied that she just got the application the day before and would send it in the next day. She was upset that I could not figure out if it was being processed until she mailed it in. I eventually gave up explaining.

Another Friday, around 4:30 pm, a woman called and said her electricity was going to be turned off because she was 1,000 dollars behind in her payment. We asked her what was keeping her from paying it. Perhaps she had lost her job? Or maybe she had some health bills? Wellllll, not exactly she explained. She’d spent her last 5 grand bailing her baby’s daddy out of jail. Unfortunately, there isn’t a program to help people who post bail…

Of course, a lot of people had conspiracy theories/law ideas to share with us. My personal favorite was how all the police everywhere were corrupt. But, the police in this particular hometown were especially corrupt because every time this guy ran a stop sign, he got a ticket. The injustice!

I worked several days a week, and Mondays were always the worst. This was because people would call in and yell a lot about how they’d called us Saturday or Sunday and we hadn’t yet returned their calls. When we explained that our office hours were actually Monday through Friday, they wanted to know where their tax dollars were going, if not to have us available to work for them on the weekends! When one particular person was done being angry, he asked if we could send a coloring book to his fourth grade daughter on fire safety. Yes, buddy. That couldn’t wait.

Fridays were easy though. Sometimes, we’d go all afternoon without a call. Because I’d often have long Thursday nights (studying, obviously), I’d sometimes curl up underneath my desk and take a quick little nappy. Your tax dollars at work, kids.

My personal favorite were the callers who said they knew the representative very well so if he wasn’t in the office, would I please just give them his cell number? When I asked how the caller knew the representative, they typically met him in a parade several years ago. Their bond was close though. I can trust that. Right.

Eventually, my cushy state job ended when I got a job closer to school. I can’t take naps anymore, but I’m still contributing the economy, which is great because someone’s gotta pay those utility bills for the people that are too broke from bailing their baby Daddy’s from jail.

My Little Brother

I’ve decided to start a new series. Every Sunday, I’ll be writing a little biography on someone close to me, be it a family member, a close friend, or someone I don’t really know but would like to share my deep perspective on them with you. Today is week one of this feature and the proud winner of this honor is none other than my little brother, Jacob Christian.

Jacob is 18 months younger than me and five years younger than our older brother, David. Cute, right? My parents gave Dave three years of solo attention and I get 18 months to bask in the glory of being the sweet, new little baby before Jake came along and stole the limelight.  Anyways, for the first few months of his life, he was a pretty normal little baby. Even could be considered well behaved. But then he started crying. He didn’t really stop until he was twelve.

Jake also had some weird little habits. He could never decide if he wanted our mom to put the toothpaste on the brush for him or if he wanted to do it himself. If mom did the wrong one, his whole day was ruined. After all, if you can’t brush your teeth how you want, what’s the point of even getting out of bed? After he brushed his teeth, every morning for what, five years? he had what David lovingly referred to as the Daily Dump. We lived in a little house and with only one main bathroom, it was a race to get to the toilet to do everything you needed to do before Jake toddled on his chubby little legs into the bathroom.

And Jake was a chubby little kid. And strong, too. When he was twelve months old, he did a pull up in the line at a Burger King. The other patrons were amazed. That’s actually the last time Jake attempted to work out.

David and Jake were the kind of brothers that rough housed. A lot. Which was fine, until a little game that Dave invented ended up snapping Jake’s thigh bone. So, at the little age of 5, the poor little kid was put in a full leg cast decorated with Ninja Turtle faces. The doctor said Jake couldn’t put any weight on it and so he forced the little cripple to use a wheelchair. For six weeks.

Jake was a high energy kid and being stuck in a wheelchair all day long made him pretty cranky. Plus, it was a long day for him: Mom arranged for the handicapped bus to take him to and from school, but it had to pick up all the other handicapped kids too, so he typically rode the bus for 45 or more minutes. All of that restlessness bottled up and so when a Playground attendant eventually gave Jake a little sass, Jake went ahead and bit her. As punishment, they had him moved up to the next grade.

I know, right? Really harsh. Jake bites an adult, he gets rewarded. I am an adorable, sweet baby for 9 months, and my parents decide to take away my glory and give me another brother. The agony.

Jake eventually grew out of his temper tantrum phase. But not until he was in middle school. He doesn’t bite anymore. He’s actually okay. I guess. For an attention stealing little brother, anyways.

Tags: sunday spotlight

My Native Roots

My whole life, I was told I was a mutt. While my friends went around bragging that they were half Italian, full blooded Russian, or a quarter Canadian, I could only sit on the sidelines, stuck with blood that was a mixture of so many European countries, I couldn’t list half of them I tried. I had no ethnic roots. I was not allowed to wear a shirt that says “Everyone Loves A (insert ethnicity here) Girl.” Then, one day, that all changed.

I don’t remember who exactly told me, but the truth eventually came out: My great great grandmother was a full blooded Indian. 

I know, right? How exciting. I was thrilled. 

My brothers and my parents brushed this little tidbit aside, but oh no, not I. I sucked onto it like a leech. I’d finally discovered that I was, dare I say, exotic? And I was not letting it go until I’d discovered everything about it. I mean, obviously there was an entire POPULATION of people I was practically related to! 

The first struggle was determining exactly how Native American I was. After some calculations, I discovered I was you know, basically a full blooded Indian. 1/16, my friends, 1/16. That’s 6.25% for my readers who aren’t too hot at mental math. 

Next, I had to learn exactly what type of Indian I was. There’s a lot of tribes out there and I felt it was pertinent to identify with the correct one. So, I did some interviewing and essentially, I’m Cherokee. Probably. I mean, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m Cherokee. There’s technically no evidence of this tribal affiliation, but after looking in the mirror for a few seconds, I decided that I’d go with that. It rolls off the tongue and my best friend’s Cherokee too, so we like to think that our great ancestors shared a wigwam. Maybe they even made headdresses together!

Unfortunately, once I logged onto the official Cherokee website, I learned that just “being pretty sure” doesn’t actually cut it. I have to have evidence. Oh, and there’s that little matter of having to be 25% Cherokee before they’ll even admit me into their little special club. Kind of cliquey, huh? Plus, even after all of that, the process of receiving any benefits of actually being one of them, like those fancy dividends from the casinos or a free education, is just not going to happen. 

But hey, that’s okay! Because I’m still Cherokee! And a little more time with The Google led me to an organization full of people who aren’t Indian enough to be in the official Organization, so they’ve started their own. And for $12.95, I can be a part of it!

Once that little matter was resolved, it was time to come up with our Native American names. Because my family had no interest in pursuing this with me, I gave them all names on their behalf. Cliff became “Frolics with Small Animals.” Don’t call her Mom, call her “Tivos All That Laughs.” The brothers needed special names, so David was branded “Mooches off Parents” and Jake got “Will Dance for Lady Attention.” I gave myself “Sunshine Cloud” and my dog “Raindrop.” I think these names put us more in touch with not only our tribe, but with nature. And nature, after all, was the playground of our ancestors. Plus, I have a new guilt trip for all my “white” friends. It goes something along the lines of “You should really be nicer to me. After all, your family stole the land of my forefathers. I think you’ve done me enough harm.” 

I was all set to pay the 12.95 and get the certificate of Ethnicity and hey, I could even slap it on my resume. But then, well, I decided against. I don’t need a club to tell me I’m Cherokee. After all, I have the word of my family, and they’re “pretty sure” that’s the tribe we’re in.

My Empty Nesters

I have to admit, when my little brother left for college, I was a little concerned for my parents. I mean, after 23 years of having children to dote on and give love and attention to, I didn’t really know what they would do with all their spare time. 

My brothers and I were all super busy throughout high school. Because our parents said we all had to play two varsity sports plus be active in clubs (gotta beef up that college resume), we’d kept them employed as professional spectators for as long as I can remember. Thus, when Jake left for college, I made it a mission to make sure they wouldn’t be too sad. How? I made sure to call every night. I emailed when I had time. I accepted the fact that my dog and my dad were going to be best friends and that it was probably healthy for Cliff to have something to play with, even if that thing is a four pound ball of fluff. 

Hence, I wasn’t expecting this conversation:

Me: Hey Mom, how’s <insert’s son of family friend’s name> doing in his first year of college?

Mom: Great! His dad’s BARELY heard from him so everything’s SUPER!

….so wait? That kid doesn’t call home and his Dad just assumes he’s great and everyone’s thrilled. I call home every night out of the goodness of my heart and you’re somehow insinuating that I am less than super? I immediately cut my calls down to every other night.

I do go to college close to school though. So I’m not against asking my parents to come by for dinner. It gives me a chance to see them and make sure they’re holding up without me around, and of course, it’s free food. A few weeks after school started, this conversation occurred:

Me: Hey Mom, it’s Maggie. Do you want to go out to dinner this week?

Mom: Hmm, well, I’m really busy with my spinning class, plus I have a stepping class. Oh, and the girls are coming over for Margaritas on Thursday and then I have book club so I mean, of course I want to see you, honey, but I’m just really busy.

What?! My own mother is rejecting my company? Isn’t she supposed to be devastated over my departure? How can she even THINK about NOT having dinner with me?

I got the hint though. Ann and Cliff were puttering along fine without me to keep them company. So, I stopped worrying and had a good time at school all first semester. Then, the brothers and I came home for Christmas break. Mom had bought groceries and yummy food and seemed truly delighted to have us all home.  This reinforced everything I’d originally suspected: they are masking their pain and truly weep at my absence.  Which was the theory I clung to until this conversation came along:

Mom’s Friend: So, how’s it having everyone home?

Mom: Good! Well, except it’s loud and pretty messy. But I mean, they go back in a few weeks and the house can be clean again and take naps without hearing the piano blare through my earplugs.

While I’d like to think she’s just masking her pain so that no one realizes how truly deep she’s hurting, after I put all these conversations together, I’m starting to think perhaps she likes being an empty nester! That perhaps the woman enjoys not spending every Saturday morning at volleyball tournaments or every Tuesday and Friday night watching her sons plays sports! Spinning and Margaritas with the girls may NOT be her way of attempting to grieve for her loss–she might actually like that crap!

But that couldn’t be true, right? Right? 

Maggie: Mom, that’s not true right?

Mom: Honey, I don’t really have time to talk, American Idol is on and your dad just poured me a glass of wine…

My Near Death Experience

When I was a mere toddler, perhaps two or three, my parents took me swimming at their friend’s pool. Of course, it was more like trespassing than swimming, considering that their friend wasn’t home and while they had said Ann and Cliff could bring the little rascals over to play, they didn’t expect my parents to throw a regular pool party while they were gone.

In addition to trespassing, we also managed to borrow some food from their house, putting burglary on the list of criminal offenses committed by the Flood Family. Yet, I suppose we should be grateful because it very nearly became the scene of my demise.

Now, what exactly happened during that pool party which led to my very near death is somewhat debatable. Or more like, my parents believe a completely false version and my story, the true one, is often mocked and claimed to be the fiction of a creative imagination. But, as the victim of the situation, I think it’s fair to assume that my story is the most accurate.

Let me set the scene. It’s a glorious summer day. The sun is shining, my two favorite friends of my childhood, Nolen and Maureen are playing with us, and our parents are on the other side of the pool, hanging out. As I am a tiny child, I cannot swim, but I like the water so Nolen, always the gentleman, lets me push him in. Unfortunately, as I go to do just that, I lost my center of gravity and fell into the pool myself. And that was when I almost died.

I’m told I was only underwater for a few seconds. And I admit, that’s likely true. But, even today, I can still remember those few seconds. I couldn’t breathe, I was thrashing around, and of course, there was a light. In essence, I was on the brink of death.

Then Cliff and his best buddy, Kevin, hopped in the pool and scooped me out. Apparently I didn’t even cry. I’m pretty tough like that. Plus, when you’ve just seen the light and are aware that you almost died, you’re a little too shocked to cry. And then your mom offers you a snack and you go from shock to being distracted by food and you never really get around to crying.

Seventeen years after this life changing moment, I am still scarred. After that day, water and I never really saw eye to eye. Actually, I hate it. My showers last five minutes on a long day, I hate washing my hands or my face, and I still can’t swim. I prefer Beauty and the Beast over the Little Mermaid hands down. I can, however, doggy paddle. But I can’t hold my breath underwater. I guess I should be embarrassed but I’m not. Some people were just born to keep their feet on land.

(*special thanks to annie flood for inspiration)

My Writer’s Block

The problem with being as exceptionally witty as me is that there’s pressure to stay on top. 

I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, twiddling my thumbs, trying to discover something worth giving my important and sarcastic thoughts about. I thought about writing about my obsession with cakes or the fact that I haven’t watched a superbowl in seven years. I’ve been called unamerican for my refusal to waste 4 hours of my life viewing a football game, but as I am 1/32 Native American (Cherokee Tribe, thank you very much), I’m more American than many of the fools sporting their faux jerseys while stuffing their beer bellies with McDonald’s newly offerred fifty piece chicken nugget meal.

I thought about writing about Sorority Rush, but that topic is so truly ridiculous that I need more than just a few minutes to give me thoughts on it. I even got so bold as to think about just mocking some truly poorly written blogs on the interwebs (have you ever hit up cakewrecks.com? I’ve never so badly wanted someone to just post pictures and stop commenting. Her words literally make my stomach hurt).

Anywhos, I’m going to use the next few days to think of some truly beautiful things to write about and I also encourage you to text/fax/email/call/bat signal me up some ideas. Thanks in advance. Stay gorgeous Mid-Michigan.