S*cks to Be Me (#5): I’m Dreaming of a Swamp Christmas

Hello, Everyone,




Okay, so let’s pick up the story from last time. So far, I’ve been attacked by the Giant Flying Eyeball, Dissed by the Diss Dashers, Bashed by the Appliances from Hell, and Left To Freeze In the Dark by the Furious Furnace with anger management issues. And that’s just the fun stuff.

So, today, we’re going to move briskly to the Pond Scum and Poison Arrow Frogs in the basement.

But, before we do that…we’ve got to get Martha to the hospital.



*

Martha teaches at Tufts. She’s in the Department of Ed, there. That means she teaches teachers to teach (say that real fast three times). If you missed my column about her a few weeks back, then know ye for all eternity that if you make that joke about those who can’t teach and those who can’t teach teachers . . . well, if you make it, and in earshot of her, you won’t make it twice. At least not if you don’t want your kneecaps removed with a chainsaw. But a nice sharpen chainsaw. And in a loving and respectful manner. She’s good like that.

Anyway, she teaches at Tufts. One of her jobs is to go around to visit local high schools where student-teachers are placed so they can get a little experience.

So, one day, she’s at a certain high school downtown. It’s a nice school. It has lots of nice students in it. Some of them are small. Some of them are medium-sized. Some of them are large.

And some are . . . Extra-Large.

As in HUGE. As in Sumo wrestler meets Jolly Green Giant with a side order of Humongous thrown in for good measure.

So, on the day in question, a couple of these particularly large students were, as the saying goes, horsing around in the AV room. The particular form of horse playing involved concerned itself chiefly with tossing large objects around. Like chairs. And desks. And quarter-ton trucks. And finally, each other. Which is when it got serious.

To make a long story short, Martha was walking briskly through the hallway going from appointment A to appointment B when the door to the AV rooms bashed open and several hundred pounds of flying football player soared out…

And into her.

She bounced.


*

From what she tells me, there then followed a somewhat confused period comprised mostly of the previously referenced 200-pound meat rack of a student saying, “Oh, jeez, oh, jeez, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” a lot. And then there seemed to be several school administrators dashing about. And then the school nurse was there. And then some of Martha’s students were making plans to take her to the hospital.

But, then, Martha . . . being Martha . . . says No, No, I’m Fine. And I Can’t Leave. Because I Have Work To Do. And People Are Depending On Me.

So …

She staggers to her feet.

*

When she got home that night, and I found out about all this . . . and about how she spent the rest of day dashing about from place to place, all the while with a bag of ice under her arm and pressed up against the places where it hurt the most…

I thought about slapping her silly.

But, wouldn’t fit my image. You know, all that damn compassion shit…

*

Anyway, the next morning, I propel her to the emergency room at the local hospital. The intake nurse takes one look at her, blanches, and sends her off to X-ray.

Me? I’m left to amuse myself in the waiting room with its copious selection of reading material…

Like, for instance, several years’ worth of back issues of The Journal of Obscure Organs That Get Infected and Rot.

Great stuff.
*

There was also one magazine on golfing.

I don’t golf. I don’t suppose I ever will. That’s because every time I think it might be fun to take up golf, I find a magazine about it. And then I read it. And I find something like this:

“Need to manage that over-sized driver and really control those balls? Here’s the skinny from international Pro Roger Ruffhocker on all the tricks of the trade. The secret is in gripping your shaft. Make sure you provide a steady pressure at the base and just finger the upper tip. That’s to let you hit your balls straight in the face. Just assume the address position, but be sure to take up a soft backward stance with your feet spread and with a slight crouch to provide an opening. Place your heel to the left and position the driver just right. Then … Fire AWAY!”

That’s what I read.

Then, after a while, I very carefully take the magazine to the other side of the room. And leave it. Face down. When nobody’s looking. And no one can tell I’ve touched it.

*

So, several hours later, Martha reappears. The good news is that she does not have broken ribs. The bad news is that she has something called a “chest wall injury.” That’s code for, Ya Got Da Bujezzes Whacked Outta Ya. That’s the technical term. Very sophisticated and professional.

We head home.

*

Time passes.

Martha gets better over the course of the next few months. You read that right. Months. She received her injury in the Fall of 2008. In some ways, she wasn’t really entirely recovered until January of 2009. I gather she STILL has twinges now and then, and I’m writing this in March of 2009.

But, there’s another aspect of this story. The result of her injury is that, for these several months, even quite minor physical effort is painful for her. And something really demanding—like, say, helping her beloved husband shovel snow after a teeny-tiny little blizzard or two—well, that’s just not happening.

As we shall see, this will have consequences.

For me.


*

Okay, but now we get back to our story. By December, Martha is on the mend. And, the holiday season is upon us. It is, in other words, time to Buy The Christmas Tree.

We have a tradition about buying the tree. It’s something we do as a family. If at all possible, we gather up David plus one or more of his friends and head off to find the just right evergreen. So, one Thursday afternoon, we phone him up at his apartment and make arrangements to meet the following Saturday for a bit of pine pursuit.

But, as we’re hanging up, we realize we will now have to pick a place for the aforesaid Christmas tree.

Normally, we put it in the living room. But, this requires a bit of effort on our part. We have to move the TV, the sofa, the rocking chair, the recliner, the table next to the window where Martha keeps all those plants and other leafy stuff, the table next to the wall with all the photos on it, and, well, you get the picture.

It would be nice, we thought, to avoid all that.

So . . .

We also have a finished basement. There’s a bedroom that used to be David’s, while he was still living here, and a large family room. We don’t use the family room much because it used to be David’s space, and then, when he moved out, it sort of filled up with everything we couldn’t fit someplace else. And, besides, it was always cold down there during the winter.

But, during the summer of 2008, I had decided to Make Things Different. So, in dribs and drabs (and, as we shall see, in drips) over the next few months, I got things more or less straightened out down there. I moved out the stuff we were never going to use again, hauled a bit of furniture around, did some vacuuming, and, voila! We had a new room.

However, in the winter, we still didn’t use it much because it remained dang cold down there. But, that morning in December, we said, hello! We just got the furnace fixed (see last’s Xcargo, Sucks to Be Me, number four). We popped downstairs and checked. And, ta-dah! it was nice and toasty.

Terrific, we say, We Can Have Christmas In The Basement.

And, thinking thus, we trot back upstairs again.

At the top of the stairs, I turn to myself and I say, “Say…?”

“Yes?” I reply, suspiciously.

“While we were down there, you didn’t happen to …?” I ask.

“Naw,” I say.

“So there wasn’t a …”? I add.

“No,” I reply, firmly, “There was absolutely NO moist, musty, mildew, urine smell down there. None. Nada. Zip. Wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, good.” I say, relieved.

I have a lot of these sorts of conversations with myself. As you may have already noticed. Also, I’m wrong a lot. But you may have already noticed that, too.

*

Next week, we’ll finally get to the Swamp part of the story. You, of course, saw it coming long, long, long ago. But, let’s just keep that between ourselves. So, shhhhh. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Keep that flooded basement under your belt. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for everyone much dimmer than we are.

But, there will also be some new developments. There will be, for instance, pea gravel, French drains, a fairly long trench, and, oh, yes, the Flying Mutant Bat-Winged Eyeball will, once more, drop by a visit.

But, as I say, that’s for next time.

Until then…

Onward and upward.















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker