I spent a great majority of my school years in the Tennessee school system. No, it wasn’t one room, no it wasn’t on a tobacco farm, yes there was a pair of cousins that were caught kissing in the bathroom. For reals, it happened.
Due to a recent virus outbreak at my job, this post was prompted by conversation about it. What was going around? That I do not know, it could have been introduced by anyone or anything. It’s a proven fact according to TLC’s show Hoarders: Buried Alive that anyone can live in deplorable conditions and not even the closest of friends know. Anyone, that lady with the hand sanitzer on her desk, a cover up. She has jars of urine and feces decorating her house because her bathroom is full of magazines, because that’s where they should go, duh. I will accept this as long as it’s not Woman’s Day, which we all know, it is.
Which brings me back to 2nd grade. My teacher, Mrs. White, bless her kind heart wherever she may be.
I must have gotten a stomach virus, possibly from contaminated Kid’s Cuisine, who knows. I made it half way through the school day when I began throwing up, and didn’t stop. I became a Garbage Pail Kid. The school tried to call my mom, who wasn’t home. No cell phones…so they tried the emergency contact list, whoever the hell that was. I was stuck at school, vomiting relentlessly. Because I’ll assume before caller I.D. people just didn’t answer the freaking phone.
During a game of “heads up seven up” which is a “quiet game” and should be called “heads up shut the fuck up”, I increased my gross sick kid factor to the tenth power. It was like this:
My teacher grabbed a trash can and put it beneath me but a little too late because it was all over the floor. When I looked up this kid named Matthew was pulling the scotch tape off her desk and taping his nose going, “Oh God! It stinks!” Which made me laugh and then puke more. Sensing the possibility of me grossing out other eight year old kids, igniting a puke chain reaction, she ushered me to the bathroom.
Right now, as and adult, I know what this lady was thinking, “Where the fuck is your mother kid? So help me, if I get sick, I am taking a week off. If she gets anything on my denim jumper with apples on it, I’m gonna be sick.” Well, she helped me wash up and splashed cold water on my face, like a saint that she is.
I get back to see the janitor with the dust cleaning up my mess. I know what he was thinking too, “All this from one fucking kid? Did she have a massive head trauma? Six Flags doesn’t clean this much puke up!”
Well that Matthew kid had used the entire roll of tape on his face which became a mask or sorts. Only, he couldn’t get it off. My teacher then had to pull this hastily devised respirator off while he screamed, “It’s pulling my face!” I laughed and of course puked more, this time in the trash can. I’m sure she went home and drank a bottle of whine before zoning out to Family Matters.
Well, the fiasco wasn’t over, I had to ride the bus home. I had not quite emptied my gastric contents however, ohhh ho ho no, not quite. I couldn’t get close enough to the front of the bus and I guess being like eight, I didn’t think to tell the bus driver, Ms. Ruby, she had those super high bangs. I know she rocked out to Poison all day, every day. Well, I almost made it home but not quite. I ran to the front of the bus but threw up on a kid right before the trash can. He was this red-headed little asshole so I feel karma was at work this day.
He screams and Ms. Ruby slams on the breaks. I almost go flying into the windshield. At this moment, I would have welcomed the embrace of dead relatives as they guide me to a bright light. Heaven is very well lit, you never strain your eyes reading there.
Well, I throw up at the bus stop too and the children disperse but not before screaming “Ewww! Don’t touch her!” Now I know how a leper felt in the days of yore. It was rather isolating. I make it home and my dad is in his usual television after work attire, a white t-shirt and shorts, with slippers. He has no idea I’m sick but he suggests I lay on the couch and watch Cheers, which I think made me sicker.
My mom finally came home and rendered aide. She got the ginger ale out and a cold rag for my forehead. I swear this magic combination is sheer alchemy only mother’s know, because I was fine soon after. I still don’t know where she was, M.I.A. during that fateful phone call, but I’m going to assume drugs. Yep, drugs. She hid it well, I always assumed the track marks were because she said she had a “diabetes habit”. I hope you all know I jest.
I didn’t go to school the next day, much to Mrs. White’s relief I’m sure. I got to play Barbies and listen to my Paula Abdul tape all day, weak, but much better. I got back to school and I was made fun of for about a week straight. That red-headed fuck on the bus never spoke to me, nor made eye contact. I mean, I did throw up on his Starter jacket.
Sorry asshole, I’ll have you know my puke looked better than your freckled face! I hope you also know I jest. He was an asshole though. Worst school day ever.