Exploding tonsils and Applesauce

My tonsils and I have an interesting history. A few years ago, they first demonstrated their ability to make my life miserable just before a trip to Mexico (and by that I mean a mission trip I didn't want to go to in the first place, so.... thanks God?). To this day, the best explanation I ever got was "tonsillitis." It wasn't an abscess (as I painfully found out in the Duluth hospital), nor strep throat, nor mono. But I did lose the ability to talk. I also discovered codeine makes me vomit. On the upside, Dad and I bonded for that week. Mom and Laura were in Mexico, and I needed someone to make me blended food and other such delightful things.

My next reminder of tonsil existence was the return flight to Nicaragua. A sore throat turned into a swollen throat. Changes in air pressure through 3 connections did not help. People gave me a wide berth as I looked more and more miserable, and (as I heard later from my 11 year old cousin) rather....odoriferous. This time, it was strep throat, so I spent three days in St. Paul with my uncle, chowing down on ibuprofen and watching action movies. One tonsil refused to return to normal size.

And then can this weekend. A sore throat turned into excruciating pain. No strep throat. I was prescribed a salt water gargle by the college nurse. Hmm. For some reason, I decide to cover someone else's 8 hour shift. I spend it eating double dosages of high strength Excedrin. I know Kyle has Vicodin, but I have too much pride to ask (and he was never in his room. But still...lots of pride). Walking to work on Saturday, I cry. Walking back from work, I cry. I spend the rest of the day eating applesauce and benadril in Clarissa's room, who also makes me soup, crackers, and milk. I am pleased, but still in incredible amounts of pain.

And then...Sunday morning... I take a sip of water, and something...pops. My mouth is flooded with pus, blood, and mucus. The pain leaves almost immediately, and I rejoice in the bathroom, spitting out my left tonsil's excrement. Although the discomfort is gone, I decide it's not worth going to work. After eating an omelet in the caf (delicious and pain free!) , Clarissa and Bailey tell me I should probably go to the hospital. After meeting a rapid succession of roughly 7 nurses and doctors, all with their own specialty (to woman who fills out the form on the computer, the other woman who draws blood, the man who feels my tonsils with very little warning, etc), I am prescribed penicillin, steroids, and painkillers.

Danielle and I make a trip to Hy-Vee for applesauce, milk, soup, and drugs. The drugs only cost $19.99, and the soup is on sale: 8 for $10. The Mediterranean food at the Writing Center party that night tastes delicious. I do nothing all day except glory in my fully functioning mastication system.

Still. Tonsils. Why?

February is far too eventful

Happy:
Chinese New Year
Vietnamese New Year
Korean New Year
Lent
Black History Month
Valentine's Day
Groundhog Day
Abraham Lincoln's Birthday
President's Day
George Washington's Birthday

I'm not exactly sure how I plan on celebrating all these things. Listen to patriotic music with ash on my forehead, a stuffed groundhog under one arm and a 4th grade style "You're 'beary' cute" card in the other? Maybe some small denomination Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese currency to hand out as good luck gifts? Read The Invisible Man?

Overwhelming. Maybe I'll just take a nap.

My inner nostrils are frozen

Among other interesting things.

I am experiencing a strange shift in perception. It was incremental, not altogether foreseen, and I am perhaps slightly sheepish.

Caf food=good.

Now, don't get riled up. There's a lot behind this statement. First of all, this is the only time in my life where guaranteed food, of various varieties, is less than a 5 minute walk from my domicile. Second, I never have to prepare the food myself, which means it never gets burnt, rotten, rancid, or moldy. Third, I pay for the merest fraction of the actual cost, thanks to Coe's hefty endowment.

This philosophy has extended to the rest of campus, where I enjoy convenient computer access, ample heating, a library is just outside my "apartment," three low intensity part time jobs that don't make me go insane, and of course all the deep thoughts whirling through the air. This is a truly odd part of my life.

In other news, the temperature has reached record lows. Literally. This is the coldest Cedar Rapids has been since they started measuring the temperature. Frostbite is a possibility.

Yet we manage to keep our spirits up. Select individuals from 9th floor Murray and associates could be seen romping in the snow last Saturday night, as well as engaging in the making of snow angels and possible allusions to whirling dervishes. At one point, said associates were joined by fellow rompers leaving Peterson Hall. I kid you not, we joined hands in brotherhood and we spun. Semi-heathen rituals have never been so enjoyable.

Rocketships and Masking Tape

I tapped into my inner child this weekend. Select members of 9th floor Murray had an early breakfast of waffles and ice cream before beginning an epic journey of cardboard mastery. I will say our rocketship (The Darling Clementine) was a success, as long as you keep in mind nostalgic memories of childhood architecture. One of the fins, stabilized by cardboard ribs and wishful thinking, succumbed to gravity. The booster however was a resounding success, as well as the cockpit.

This all began when I finished moving in everything that had been dormant for over a year in the Coe College storage facility. It was odd to see what I thought was necessary to save (empty CD cases, scraps of paper, Judy Garland stickers...), and a bit distressing to remember what I had in fact left at home (bedsheets). However, one of the boxes was big enough for 9th floor's rocketship dreams.

Classes are stimulating. My Intro to Political Science class is frightfully large. And I turned in my Turkey application, although I won't hear anything until late March. It's a bit anticlimatic (Whoopee...).

Hardcoreitude

flakes
Today's my first at college. It's been fairly underwhelming. Nothing is all that surprising, except that I don't know anyone. All my friendswere upperclassmen, and they've either graduated or hid themselves away in the apartments. Hell, I don't even know my roommate. She seems nice though. AND has a hello kitty toaster. Which I am allowed to use. Rockin'.

I've already had a memorable day. I went to my old job (its premises anyway) and re-applied. I found out beforehand that the Environmental Club lets students rent out bikes for free. So I took advantage of this opportunity to enjoy the warm January air by a faster mode of transportation than foot. And I could feel superior to all those air-haters in their automobiles. Mom had called me just before and asked me if it was sleeting. I scoffed. "It's gorgeous out mom, you're being ridiculous."

As I wheeled the bike onto 1st Ave however, the sky let loose. Enormous wet flakes whipped my face while I biked the mile over to the URrelay building, feeling even more superior than I did before.

For those who don't know (which is probably pretty much everyone who reads this blog), my New Year's Resolution is to buy nothing new for the entire year. Exceptions are:

* Medicine and Medical Attention (that isn't optional, like Botox)
* Food
* Cleaning supplies (detergent, deoderant, etc)

Everything else, I will just convince myself I don't need or I will shop at second hand stores. The idea is that I stop thinking as a consumer, as well as reducing the carbon trail of most of my goods.

Another recent change is I've become vegetarian. I'm anemic, so I'm not sure how this will work out. I'll probably binge on a steak once I start getting too lethargic. One Marie Hunt has purchased a small grill that can be used in a dorm room, apparently, so we're planning on getting organic steaks when the need arises. She is also cutting back on meat, but for completely different reasons.

Anyway, I'm officially a hippie. Hippie 2.0. Of course, like most suburbian hippies, I'm probably contradicting myself completely without even knowing it (Lattes are a food.....).

concerts and Gritar-ing

Dad invited me to the High School Winter Concert. Usually, these types of events make me shudder and turn back to my laptop. Dad and I both know the majority of the high school choirs are painful collections of gangly adolescents who breathe from their shoulders and never stay in tune. But we also know that we are hosting a South Korean student for the week as part of a Christmas homestay program and to deny Kim Jo the opportunity to see dozens of hormonal teenagers who think they can sing is unthinkable. Also, I was curious to see my old high school, inhabited by students I had never met.
Of course, all of the songs were Christmas-themed. One of my favorite pastimes is situations like this is to squint my eyes and watch the entire ensemble blend into one big Caucasian blob. But Kim Jo said she liked them, although she did not understand what figgy pudding was, and why “they wouldn’t go until they got some,” as the demand seemed rather threatening. So Dad launched into an explanation about an old tradition in England of caroling from house to house for treats.
I can’t believe this didn’t occur to me during La Purisima. For those who don’t know, this day celebrates the conception of the Virgin Mary. The night before is known as La Griteria, or The Shout, something like that. Groups of Nicaraguans visit families with Purisima altars set up, sing one of the holiday songs, and receive gifts. The gifts are usually practical, like Tupperware or cups, but you can also get nacatamales (think large mass of cornmeal with some meat in the middle), juice, noisemakers, candy, etc. Let the imagination go wild.
Of course I threw myself into celebrations with some others in the group, as well as a few Nicaraguan friends who knew where the good houses were and how to sing the songs. We really do just shout out the song. I’m beginning to think Nicaraguans prize decibels over harmony. And we never did just a refrain; we shouted out several verses before calling it good and getting our treats. I wonder why this tradition died out in England? And why it is such a big deal in Nicaragua? If anyone has any suggestions, feel free to comment.
The best part about the night was roughly midnight, when what sounded like every person in Managua lit off all the firecrackers, fireworks, and various noisemakers they had bought with their bonus paycheck. I stood in the park with Rachel, Brian, Cailen, and David, and couldn’t stop grinning. For all Nicaragua’s inner contradictions and divisions, at least they can all agree that setting off explosives to celebrate Mary getting knocked up is a splendid idea.

Home...

So, I'm back in the states. It feels rather sudden, and I'm reeling both mentally and physically. What with the strep throat and ear infection that made the 12 hour plane ride (involving two transfers) a living hell. I've been making plenty of notes however, so hopefully I'll create some entries later about other Nica experiences. For now, I'm facebooking like there's no tomorrow, downing double dosages of ibuprofen, and taking antibiotics. In reality, I'm not even home yet, I'm at my aunt's in St. Paul. I still need to drive 3 1/2 hours north to get to my house. Where my parents can't wait to pile on the creature comforts. I don't know what I'll do with so much love. I've been in 100% academic load for four months. The switch over has been far too sudden.


Upcoming:
+ sights and sounds of Maximo Jerez
+ Nicaraguan political commentary
+ an explanation of exactly what I did for my independent study
+ poetry

All photos are finally on flickr, and even in handy, themed sets. Much more helpful to view. Whenever I'm not writing blog entries or writing internship applications for the upcoming summer, I'll probably be organizing them even further. I call it my Tupperware peccadillo.