A foul wind has swept the area, gentle reader, and with it came a virus vile in its feature set. Fever, congestion, aches, and fatigue, this strain has it all, and many friends and acquaintances have fallen under its spell. Some claim it’s the flu, while others speak of its mysterious origins in hushed and reverent tones.
Until the CVS set up shop, Osco Drugs was the only apothecary in town. The grimy shelves, the cramped atmosphere, the poor lighting, and the long lines have all but become an Evanston institution, firmly establishing itself as a vital part of the Northwestern experience. I remember the overwhelming sense of orange. I remember the signs hanging above the cash registers, each one displaying the Osco guarantee. The guarantee read like a modern riff on a classic Bible verse: Where three or more a gathered, another cashier will appear in their midst. I remember these things. Hell, I remember these things from last week when I went there out of habit, and readers who know Evanston can empathize.
I haven’t suffered from asthma lately, so I certainly want this streak to continue unabated. Getting the flu would not help this goal, and the shortage of vaccines isn’t helping either. The alma mater, long a source of flu shots, has declared that we don’t need vaccines because we’re unilaterally healthy. This means, of course, that it’s off to Osco. Come to think of it, I also went there last year because of a shortage. My experience unfolded like so.
“Is…is that a banana?”
“No, sir, it’s a flu shot. Now lift up your sleeve.”
That’s an exaggeration. They gave me my shot, with a clean needle to boot. Have a safe and flu-free weekend.
The holidays are quickly approaching, gentle reader, so I’ll tell you an anecdote about Christmastime on Long Island. In Asian culture, and I’ll qualify this further by pinpointing Taiwanese culture, food is synonymous with love. Now, having lived in the States all my life, a cinnamon roll looks precisely like a cinnamon roll to me. It’s a different story in Taiwan, where the same cinnamon roll resembles a glazed bear hug while a bear claw, or so I’ve heard, resembles a gigantic love elephant.
My sister and I came home from college, which of course meant my mum purchased enough food to feed my sister, our dozen evil clones, and me. One night, I awoke with a burning need for water. I descended the stairs, entered the kitchen, and poured myself a refreshing cup. I also spied a bag of cookies, and we all know that bags of cookies were made to be open.
The cookies looked absolutely delicious, small rectangles of sugar and fat that promised an exponential amount of holiday cheer. I gingerly untied the festive red ribbon, opened the package, removed a cookie, and savored a nibble. Funny thing was, I couldn’t nibble it.
“Oh, Wolfgang Puck it!” I probably thought.
I turned the bag over and practiced my ability to read. The package was meant for our dog, but I suppose it made me its bitch that night. The experience, as did the cookie, left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Literally.
My co-worker left for 11 days of marital bliss, gentle reader, and among other things I promised to keep his saltwater aquarium alive. I grew up with all types of animals, some furry, some spiky, some with wings, some with claws, but the only fish I ever owned were freshwater fish.
Until a month ago, saltwater aquariums were simply freshwater aquariums with zest. That’s apparently not the case. Heck, given what I know now, you could probably fill your freshwater aquarium with horseradish sauce and your aquatic friends would still clap their fins with joy. Saltwater aquariums are entirely different stories, and the aquarium I’ve sworn to protect looks more like a 12-gallon invitation to screw up royally.
Do I really have the qualifications to feed and maintain an entire ecosystem? Have you ever enjoyed so powerful a hobby? It’s like you’re a deity with long pants and lots of tasty brine shrimp. I’m going to cast my doubt into the seas and meet this challenge head-on. The first item on my list is to fetch the clownfish from his anemone, bring him to the living room, and have a brief 15-minute conference.