The Troubling Tale of Tamiflu & Traitorous Tummies

As I walked outside into the snowy rain, I realized that there was a problem.

The problem was with my shoes. Well, they might not deserve the name anymore, as the sole of one of them must have worn off so much that it doesn't exist anymore. And so I came to be walking the city with one foot feeling the wet concrete at every step, my sock going squish-squish-squish, whilst the other foot sighed in happy contentment at its warm environ.

If you've ever wondered how tired New Yorkers are, the answer is: really tired. I sat between two of them and quietly spit up my stomach contents into a plastic bag. Neither of them noticed. This may be due to the fact that one had closed her eyes and the other one was listening to some intense music through his iPod earbuds.

Speaking of which: why does everyone want to listen to ghastly, horrifying songs about rapes and murders (a la JZ and Eminem) at 7:30 in the morning? Does no one else want calming, happy music to gently welcome you to the day?

In case you're wondering why exactly I was spitting up my stomach contents (I don't make a habit of it), let me just say that I was recently diagnosed with both bronchitis and the flu, leading me to be prescribed, among other things, a fun medicine called Tamiflu. Tamiflu causes gastrointestinal side effects that are quite miserable including intense nausea and potential vomiting. Taking the subway train after having taken Tamiflu was not one of my better ideas. The shaking, jolting, starting and stopping all stirred my (already agitated) stomach.

But what I really want to talk to you about today is the word "troubled." I have noticed (from my great cultural perusal of AM New York and Metro) that the word "troubled" is overused in many of the following contexts:

- The "troubled" Spiderman show
- The "troubled" starlet (referring to Christian Aguilera, Lindsey Lohan, Britney Spears alternately)
- The "troubled" teen (any frum person referring to a kid who is not quite off-the-derech but who is hanging out with members of the opposite gender)
- The "troubled" city (New York City, what else?)
- The "troubled" economy
-Her "troubled" childhood (any criminal)

And the list goes on.

In any case, gnawing on a Grannysmith apple saved me from spitting up the rest of my stomach contents, which I'm sure was quite a relief to everyone involved (aka me and the standing gentleman who watched me as I nibbled at it and doubtless wondered why I would eat something that was unwashed. The answer is, dear gentlemen, sometimes desperate times require desperate measures!)

Speaking of Grannysmith, does anyone else wonder how the name came about? Grannysmith. Kind of like Granny Smith, an American version of Savta Simcha, one who helps Johnny Appleseed on his mission. Maybe even his Granny. Or Pocahontas' granny-in-law.

In any chase, this was just a long way to say that my stomach is waging a revolution and the proletariat seem to be winning. The bourgeoisie is fleeing in dismay. It's all quite upsetting.

Happy Friday!