Swine Flu/ H1N1

Swine flu is a great experience that everyone should have the luck of going through. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had it this last week. Oh wait, I do know what I would have done had the misfortune of H1N1 not been dropped on me. I would have gone to class, done my homework, taken tests, gone to work, etc. H1N1 is a terrible time, involving sore throat, high fever, stuffy nose, runny nose, and the really terrible things like searing painful headaches, vomiting, dry heaving, lack of appetite, aching body, and the utter inability to gather the energy to do simple tasks like walking. I was at the mercy of my family, confined to the boredom of solitude. It took me seven excruciating days to rid myself of this horrid disease. Well I know it’s not exactly leprosy, but it felt like it at the time. Especially since my doctor quarantined me in Mondovi, which is an hour and a half from La Crosse where all of my schoolwork was located because I didn’t plan on getting swine flu and being stuck in Mondovi. Even worse, the day I went to the doctor and found out my grim fate, I was planning on going to a party to see all of my friends that I hadn’t seen since moving up here. All in all, it was a terrible week in the life of this Nastassia, but anyway, how was your week?

The Life Story of a Nastassia!

My partial life story will really start a little more than a year before I was born. So the year is 1989, and my (white) mother, Katie Sessions, has just graduated high school at the age of seventeen. She joins the army and has a smashing good time, until she gets married when she’s eighteen. (Not to say that marriage is a downfall for good times.) His name is Craig Fuller (he is black), and in 1991 I am welcomed to the world as Nastassia Isabella Fuller.
(F.Y.I. - I am mulatto.) One year, two months, and nine days later, (this was probably the greatest year, two months, and nine days of my life.) my sister Lizzy (Elizabeth Ashley Fuller) is born. (Yay, right?) Anyway, we were born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, because my mom was still in the army. Pretty soon after that my mom moves us to Germany to live, which is where we are living when my mother wises up and kicks Craig out of our lives. (Really, Lizzy doesn’t ever hear from him again, but I get birthday cards till I turn seven, good riddance to bad rubbish.) They get divorced and he disappears, I really have no idea where he is to this day, neither do his parents.
We have some peace and quiet, until my mother meets a fellow serviceman, a cook, Jeffry Harris (he is black as well). JoAnn Denise Harris is born in Germany in 1995, my baby sister. When we move back to the states in 1996 my mother gets remarried. Lizzy and I were flower girls, we were so cute. Jeff ended up adopting us, so guess what, he’s my dad, not stepdad. Which is a cool and dandy since I’ve known him since I was a little girl living in Germany, anyway.
So this is my partial life story, I felt it needed to be told so people don’t ask me what my nationality is. If you missed it earlier, I AM MULATTO. (Not: Mexican, Korean, Asian, Native American, Latin American, Hmong, Hawaiian, Dominican, etc.) Stay tuned for next week when I unravel the partial life story of my elementary school days.

Working At Little Ceasar's

Working at Little Ceasar’s is a trip and a half. Sometimes it’s not so bad, but when it gets busy… I can’t even describe it. So picture you and your friends are out partying during the weekend. You get a little tipsy, or totally trashed out of your mind, and you and your friends are hungry. It’s one thirty in the morning and almost everywhere is closed, and the places that are open don’t take walkers through the drive through, (I.E.: Burger King). Guess what, Little Ceasar’s does take walkers. “Let’s all,” (and by let’s all I mean you and twenty other people you’re partying with), “Go to Little Ceasar’s and get some $5 pizzas!” So there are now twenty-one drunk people stumbling and yelling in various drunken stages in our parking lot. Excellent idea! There’s really nothing I love more than to be reminded that I can’t party because I’m working, by a whole bunch of drunken people demanding a lot of different pizzas and not making any sense. And I know it’s my job to give them what they want, but some people should be more courteous. For staying open and making pizza for a small price, they shouldn’t treat the workers the way they do. Besides the unruly customers, I don’t think people understand how hot it can get to be in there. We have an oven, taller than me, about five of me wide, and like seven of me long. It’s hot as hell in there, please excuse my language. So, maybe you’re thinking, “O.K., this really is not a big deal, she works at a pizza joint, rough.” But I really don’t care what you’re thinking; otherwise I’d be reading your blog as opposed to you reading mine. And now that I ended this rant, in what appears to be an insult, I shall bid you ado! (Ado!)