I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow Read Online Free Page B

muffin and coffee.

What if Henry Heimlich Were Choking?
    (47 weeks)
    SUNDAY.
    I’m over at Tucker’s. He’s just gotten a sandwich press and has been spending the day inventing new sandwiches. He’s working on a dessert sandwich called the Lew Wasserman Special. It’s made of Rice Krispies, marshmallows, cocoa, and candy sprinkles.
    â€œEver notice how people keep candy sprinkles in their spice rack?” Tucker asks, applying his body weight to the press. “Since when are candy sprinkles a spice?”
    â€œSince the time brave European explorers set out along trade routes in search of new ways to decorate their cupcakes.”
    â€œIt’s a mockery of the whole concept of spice!”
    â€œSpeaking of spice,” I say, “what do you think your Spice Girl name would be? Angry Spice?”
    â€œI don’t have a Spice Girl name. I have a fighting name: The Gefilte Fist.What’s your Spice Girl name?”
    â€œPaprika.”
    Gefilte and paprika go well together, just like Tucker and me and, I’m hoping, marshmallows and sandwich bread.
    MONDAY.
    With flu season upon us, so as not to be expected to shake hands or turn doorknobs, I’ve taken to walking the halls of my office with a cup of coffee in each hand. As a result, I am keeping twice as caffeinated. And twice as sweaty and shaky. By the end of the day, my clothes are drenched in spilled coffee and perspiration.
    I’m not the only one at work worried about germs. All day long, we rub antibacterial soap into our hands. It has the effect of making us look like the evil, scheming characters in a Renaissance drama. If only people could be so obvious about their secret schemes! It would make buying a used car easier, though dating impossible.
    TUESDAY.
    I’m sitting in my doctor’s waiting room waiting to get a flu shot. Presented with the choice of reading an issue of Medical Economics or doing a newspaper crossword puzzle,I pick up the crossword. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my pen, and so I do the puzzle in my head. I’m normally terrible at crosswords, but for some reason, today I’m on fire, getting every single answer and holding it all in my mind. What’s the point of solving a crossword puzzle that no one can see? I’m sure it has something to do with character or integrity, but at the moment I’d settle for being able to impress the receptionist.
    FRIDAY.
    Free from the worry of contagion, I meet my parents for dinner at their favourite restaurant. As I slide into the booth, I am overcome with a spirit of playfulness. It’s a feeling I’m touched by only three or four times every ten years, so I decide to indulge it. I do so by encouraging my father to order a plate of the fattiest cut of smoked meat.
    â€œI’ve been practising the Heimlich technique,” I tell him. “My power and precision are fierce enough to send a choking man’s gristle twelve feet across the room and land it in a martini glass.”
    â€œChoking isn’t a joke,” my mother says, “and neither is eating red meat. I’ve already ordered fish and chicken for the table.”
    Over dinner we speak of the blandness of the fish and the dryness of the chicken and, intermittently, my mother interrupts the conversation to return our water becausea) the ice looks dirty, or b) the water tastes like “bathroom sink” water.
    Ten minutes into the meal, and I’ve lost my spirit of playfulness. I consider sinking under the table, and reemerging only after my family has left and a new family has replaced them. Maybe in time, this new family will become my family.
    â€œThis fish is too fishy-tasting,” my father says, and we all nod our heads in agreement.

“I am. I am. I am.”
    (46 weeks)
    SUNDAY.
    On the news, I watch the outrage caused by a potential ban on poutine at a local ice-skating arena. The reporter explains to the woefully ignorant that