September 09, 2007
September 07, 2007
With all the hubbub surrounding the iPhone Tragedy of 2007* I completely forgot that I totally meant to bitch about my glands. MY GLANDS, Y'ALL. THEY ARE SWOLLEN.
Towards the end of Noah's speech session, his therapist coughed a weak, dainty little cough. She immediately apologized and said she was just getting over a cold. I immediately waved my hand, oh pish, we have nothing to fear from your cold. (This was, of course, before the iPhone Tragedy of 2007 and thus my entire outlook on life was generally much sunnier and devil-may-care.)
Less than 24 hours later I was hacking up my lungs and wishing for death every time I swallowed for FIE. FIRE. IT BURNS. (Seriously, I never realized how often I swallow. Do you swallow a lot, do you think? Because this seems excessive. I haven't gotten a decent nights' sleep since Monday because I apparently swallow in my sleep and it wakes me up because it hurrrrrrrts me, wah.)
Today I feel like my eardrum may explode at any moment. This is insanely awesome.
(Don't you love reading entire blog posts dedicated to the careful documentation of cold symptoms? Personally I find them fascinating, although they never contain enough mucus talk for my tastes.)
AMY'S TO-DO LIST:
1) Buy more xylitol gum.
2) Get adenoids removed.
3) Find out what adenoids are.
4) Re-order to-do list.
Anyway. Y'all know what a special fresh hell it is, being sick while caring for a toddler, so I'll spare you a big long retread of that. Instead, one last little story before I go crawl back under my blanket of pestilence.
Amy: Noah, Mama is sick today. You need to play by yourself for a little bit.
Noah: <blank stare>
Amy: Sick. Not happy. She feels...boo hoo. Yes. Mama is very boo hoo today.
Noah: <comes up verrrry close to my face before busting out one of his gigantically goofy show Mama happy! smiles and waits for me to crack up>
Amy: Okay, okay. That's funny. Um. How about hurt? <makes sign for hurt> A boo boo? Mama has a boo boo today.
Noah: <starts examining my face and arms very carefully>
Amy: It's not really a boo boo you can see, baby. It's more like...
Noah: <finds a bruise on my elbow and kisses it, then finds an old burn on my hand and kisses that>
Amy: Okay you know what? I feel much better now, thank you.
*No, it still doesn't work. A trip to the Genius Bar is next, once I am no longer a raging ball of misery and mucus. I am thrilled by the combination of a new lower iPhone price AND the $100 in damage control courtesy of Mr. Jobs, although Jason is now all wide-eyed and panting at the idea of just paying to fix mine and then getting an iPhone of his very very own mmmmmmprecious. Then, of course, the next time I go to Target he will freak out over a $12 tank top purchase because don't I have ENOUGH tank tops? We don't have the money for an infinite tank top collection and honestly, I better go back to work if I want to buy tank tops all willy-nilly like that.**
**God, do think I'm a little BITTER because Jason didn't come home early to give my sick ass a break, or something? Jesus. No wonder nobody brings me any damn soup.
September 05, 2007
1) If you have not yet dropped your iPhone in the toilet, consider NOT dropping your iPhone in the toilet. This is a solid course of action, in my opinion, and one that can be easily achieved by not keeping your iPhone in your back pocket, unless your back pocket has a button, but if that's the case, you probably aren't cool enough to own an iPhone in the first place, no?
If displacement of object x (where x = a fucking expensive phone) is forced by the downward velocity of object y (where y = your pants), object x will swan dive out and away from object y, with the trajectory being affected by the natural gravitational pull of object z (where z = the shitter) by a fairly simple factor of murphy's law < just your flipping luck + manufacturers' warranty = VOID.
In layman's terms: pants down + phone falls = splish splash.
2) If you have already dropped your iPhone in the toilet, you do need to immediately remove it from the toilet, then proceed directly to step 3.
3) Wash your hands.
4) Stare at phone in horror for a few seconds and assess the damage. The screen will probably be reminiscent of scrambled porn.
5) Turn the phone off, if you can. Hit the button on the top of the phone and hold it until you see the fancydancy SLIDE TO POWER OFF option on the screen, which of course you will not see, because of the aforementioned scrambled porn. NOT THAT I KNOW WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE, OR ANYTHING.
5a) Try holding down the home button AND the top-of-phone button at the same time until the phone shuts off.
6) Don't turn it back on. Unless you are Amy. Who turned it back on.
7) Don't stick pens in the side of the phone in a vain attempt to open it up. Unless you are Amy. Who stuck pens in the side of the phone in a vain attempt to open it up.
8) Go online and read about dunking the phone in rubbing alcohol or Everclear. Do not do this because it sounds scary, but consider taking a shot of Everclear. Or 12.
8a) Sink into blissful alcohol poisoning coma, where you will never have to think about the time you dropped your iPhone in the toilet, forever and ever, fluffy clouds and harps.
9) Put the phone down. Walk away. Wring hands, rent garments, gnash teeth.
10) Do not walk back to the phone after 10 minutes and attempt to start it back up. Unless you are...oh, you know where this is going.
12) Stick the phone in a cup of rice. Fret for a few minutes re: basmati or Arborio or possibly some Uncle Ben's Cheddar Rice with Broccoli before settling on the long grain enriched.
13) Remember, perhaps, that you did not ever finish peeing.
14) Confess to husband. Get shrill and hysterical over the idea that you may have to get an non-iPhone phone, because you cannot afford another iPhone, but doesn't he understand? You had an iPhone! You cannot go back now! What are you supposed to use, a fucking Razr?
14a) Consider prostitution.
15) Call it a day and go to bed. Tell reflection in mirror that it is not worthy of owning an electric toothbrush, much less an iPhone. Tell non-reflected-self to go to hell.
16) Wait at least 24 hours before turning the phone back on. Whoop with joy at the sight of the Apple logo. Holler with ecstasy at the sight of the homescreen. Weep with gratitude when the phone connects to the network with a fat, full signal.
17) Touch the Phone icon to call you husband and tell him that he doesn't need to divorce you after all.
18) Touch it again when nothing happens.
20) Safari? Mail? iPod? Settings? Anyone? Bueller?
21) Determine that only the top half of the screen is working. Congratulations! Your iPhone is now a $600 texting/calendar/Google Mapping device.
21a) Oh, and YouTube. You can still totally get the sneezing panda video.
22) Turn phone off and flee the room, decide to give it another 24 hours, also wonder what the odds are that the Apple guys at the Genius Bar will believe you that my heavens, I have no idea what happened, or if the iPhone comes with a tracking chip like George's book on Seinfeld, which in that case they will simply hand the phone back to you and say, I'm sorry, but this phone has been in the toilet, and we cannot help you.
(Ahh, this old chestnut. I should really have this photo on a macro by now. Ctrl+Alt+Fuckthisshit)
September 04, 2007
Noah started his speech therapy this morning. I wish I had something to really say about it -- something inspiring or hopeful or at least a "this is the first day of the last of my eardrums" sort of thing.
But despite all my many preparations (I vacuumed the couch cushions! I wore mascara!), our first speech therapy session was fairly anticlimactic, and was more along the lines of "a nice lady showed up with a bag of toys just like the toys Noah already has and taught me how to actually play with Noah's toys, because I fail at Toddler Toy Sound Effects 101."
And while there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, I am a little too wigged out to go into more detail. Because as soon as our speech therapist left, I managed to drop my iPhone in the toilet. Because I also fail at LIFE.
Daaaaaad! She's trying to look all involved and capable for the camera again, make her quit it.
September 03, 2007
...and the original Broadway cast recording of Rent is in the CD player and there is a receipt from Ticketmaster in Jason's inbox. We're trying out the mezzanine this time.
I don't even know who we are anymore. But I do know there is something really, really wrong with us.