Area Woman Demands Medal For Heroic Rescue of Disgusting Thing She Totally Hates

Jason Storch, Mouse Trapper M.D., caught himself another one this morning. He was quite proud of himself. The dog and the cat, on the other hand, were all nonchalantly hanging around the trap, waiting for me to put their kibble down, COMPLETELY UNFAZED by the live mouse SITTING RIGHT THERE in a clear plastic box, and did not seem to be all ashamed of themselves and their utter uselessness. 

Also! This: 

 
Is EVEN MORE BULLSHIT.

That's a dishtowel covering up today's Gladware-encased rodent offering, on the front seat of my car, as the whole "release" bit of Jason's catch-and-release plan fell to me this time. ME! 

Technically, Jason offered to take care of the mouse...later. Like, "I have to go somewhere around 4 p.m. so I'll do it then" later. I pointed out that while it's fine and great that he's so determined to trap the mice humanely and all, there's something about keeping the things trapped in cheap plastic containers all day --wallowing in piss and shit and probably terrified out of their feeble stupid tiny poop-pellet-sized disgusting brains -- that strikes me as kind of cruel. 

(Also cruel: My suspicion that he likes keeping the mice around because he thinks the look on my face and the involuntary creeped-out shoulder-spasms I get each and every time I walk into the kitchen and see the container on the counter are really funny.)

And so that's why I -- the sole non-lunatic in a household of males that have all been completely brainwashed by the Disney animation establishment -- ended up taking responsibility for freeing the awful creature in a field near Noah's school. 

(The whole drive there, Noah kept trying to understand WHY I don't like mice, mostly by asking me if I liked mice or not over and over and over again, trying to wear me down and get me to say that I did. And wear me down he did, because I finally gave up and told him that yes, I like mice just fine when they are OUTSIDE, but that I don't like mice in my HOUSE. Or CAR. Or FOOD STORAGE CONTAINERS.)

(This half-truth is still probably better than the colossal outright lie we tell him about "sending the mouse back to his family" when we talk about setting them free, because I know full well that the mouse's family [and likely a litter of blind naked mole-rat dependents] are totally back at our house, inside of our wall.)

So after dropping Noah off at his classroom I snuck over to the edge of the parking lot with my dishrag-covered offering and set the mouse free. I watched it sit there for awhile before bounding (BOUNDING, HE HONESTLY BOUNDED, IT WAS GROSS YET ADORABLE) over to a tree to clean itself off. 

 

Freedom! Terrible, blinding freedom!
 
I drove off and then found myself worrying about the mouse -- God, maybe I should've walked over to those bushes so it wouldn't be left so far out in the open? Or over there, where it wouldn't be so close to the street? Quick, scan the sky for hawks! Should I go back and try to like, corral it someplace else? 

The mental image of myself, running (OR BOUNDING) through a field by the side of the road, trying to ensure the relative safety of a MOUSE, possibly while banging the lid and bowl of a thoroughly befouled Gladware container together, snapped me right back to curmudgeonly reality, which was: That thing should count its goddamn blessings already. 

 

FUCK YOU, MICKEY. GOOD LUCK NOT BEING EATEN.
 

AND THEN!

My weekend got EVEN BETTER, if you can believe it. 

After staggering downstairs in search of coffee on Saturday morning, I was greeted by the usual sight of Jason making pancakes for the boys. 

Oh, and this, sitting on our kitchen counter:

BELIEVE IT.

I took one look at that tiny pointy seizing rodent poop monster -- on my COUNTER, in my GLADWARE, which once held CHRISTMAS COOKIES -- and turned around and marched right back out.

Noah climbed down from his stool -- and his breakfast, which was also on the COUNTER, just INCHES away the scratchy disease-ridden furball -- and chased after me, imploring me to come look! Come look, Mommy! He's our FRIEND, Mommy! Don't worry, Mommy, it's just a little mouse, and he's a friendly mouse, Mommy. 

He took my hand and pulled me back into the kitchen, where Jason was practically on the floor laughing at Noah's earnest reassurances (the very same patch of floor where this very same blinky jumpy dwarf rat thing had been brazenly skittering around at all hours of the night for weeks, BY THE WAY).

I indulged Noah and looked directly into the big bulging eyes of the furry helldemon and said yes, he seemed like a very nice mouse.

"His name is Any," Noah said. "I love him."

I glared at Jason and asked him what kind of trap had finally caught the vile bald-footed sewer-dweller and he showed me a collection of humane traps he'd picked up at the hardware store. "I've had to put new bait in them a couple times because he kept going in there and then getting back out. Last night he finally got stuck." 

He added, "He REALLY likes peanut butter."

I poured a cup of coffee and eyeballed the pocket-sized ball of plague, who was up on its hind legs, trying to nibble on the airholes Jason had punched in the lid. The container already had a unbelievable amount of mouse shit in the bottom.

The plan was to drive out to the deep 'burbs that day to take the boys to a splash park, and release the skittering itchy shifty-eyed beastrat in the fields nearby. It took us a bit longer to get ready than we thought, and when I went back into the kitchen to pack up some water and snacks, I noticed it was sitting completely still, curled up in the corner.

"OH SHIT," I thought, and poked the container. It jumped up in a panic and started racing around so hard the container moved and I did an involuntary girlscream and jumped back about four feet. It stared at me through the festive red plastic lid. I stared back. 

I noticed it had eaten all the dog food Jason had so kindly provided for it a few hours earlier. 

I went to the pantry and pulled out a box of Cheerios, and God help me, I peeled back the Gladware lid and quickly tossed a couple bites of cereal inside. I debated putting a little water in the container too but thought that might just scare it more than anything. It stared at me some more.

"I still DON'T LIKE YOU," I hissed at it. "Just so we understand each other."

I think maybe it nodded. Or else it was just the beginning stages of some rodent-bourne palsy that will one day wipe out humanity. Either way, I think it got my point.

***

We drove a good 20 miles away and released Any the Mouse in a park, near a dumpster by a soccer field. The Gladware went directly into the dumpster. Now let us never speak of this again. 

TIMELINE OF DOOM

Two weeks ago: 

I accidentally hit a curb in my car, apparently hard enough to damage the sidewall of the tire. An ominous-looking bump appeared, rendering the car undriveable until we got a replacement tire. We had a spare but for some reason there was something wrong with the spare that Jason explained and I don't know I wasn't listening zzzzzzzzzboring, look, you're going to need to accept that I am a Classic Awful Girl when it comes to car stuff and move on, okay?

One week ago: 

Jason finally made up his mind about the tire, because you know how he is about tires. He ordered a "slightly used" tired off eBay to save us from having to replace multiple tires, because the other tires were fine, at least according to the highly scientific tread-measurements we conducted using various coin of U.S. currency and also zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzboring.

In the meantime: 

Jason worked from home most days, other days we haggled and juggled and chauffeured everybody around in the other car, like pilgrims or whoever it was who lived in the days of everybody only having one car.

Last Tuesday:

Jason mentions that it's probably time to maybe start thinking about replacing the clutch on the other car, our now semi-only car. The car is only seven years old, but apparently the clutch on this particular car wears out much sooner because it was a poor match for the car's power according to the guys on the forums, at which point I mime passing out and drooling, because our car has a FORUM, haaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzzzboring, I only watch Top Gear for the parts where shit gets blown up and Captain Slow gets lost.

Last Thursday:

I noticed the car is revving a bit more than usual in first gear. I blame the air conditioning. I do not turn off the air conditioning, I just glare at it real pointedly-like.

Last Friday:

FedEx claims our new-old tire is out for delivery and should arrive any minute. FedEx is a filthy liar. I leave to pick Noah up from school in the other car. It's...revving a lot, in the lower gears. It's...wow, that's really embarrassing sounding, you know? It sounds like I have no idea how to drive a stick shift and am burning out the clutch at every stoplight and...wow, I AM burning out the clutch at every stoplight, if that awful smell is any indication.

I attempt to solve the problem by turning off the air conditioning and lowering the windows. I should really apply for The Amazing Race or something.

By the time I get to Noah's school, however, it's clear that the air conditioning has nothing to do with it, like NO SHIT SHERLOCK, and I ponder my options:

1) Call Jason, get instructed to turn the air conditioning off, get into a snippy fight about that because SHERLOCK, NO SHIT, ask him to put the baby and himself in a car with an about-to-blow tire to come get Noah and I, have him arrive only for the car to magically fix itself and drive totally fine because THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT WOULD HAPPEN AND YOU KNOW IT.

2) Risk it and drive home.

I go with option 2 because:

1) The car is driving fine in the higher gears, if I can just get to the highway without having to stop too many times I'll be okay, and

2) It's not like a clutch just up and dies completely in the span of 24 hours, right?*

*I fully admit that I have NO IDEA what the actual accepted answer to this question is, but it sounded good at the time.

Of course, I hit every. Single. Red light. Between his school and the highway. The on-ramp is backed up and we slow to a crawl. I beg the car to stay in second. BEG. Out loud, alternating between soothing little-engine-that-could pep talks and profanity-laden threats of selling it for scrap. Shit, I lose second. First is completely fucked. Rev rev REV! We're still moving and I bash the shifter around trying to get the car to go into any gear. Pick a gear! Come on! You can do it! Or I will set you on fire! Yay!

We get on the highway and away from the traffic and I'm in fifth gear and the car is revving up close to the red band and we're going...40 miles an hour. And dropping. The car's essentially in neutral and I realize that okay, OKAY. This isn't going to happen, time to cry uncle and pull over.

The second my brain finally makes this brilliant, belated decision, there's a loud BANG, like a tire blowout, and a puff of smoke. I make it to the side of the road and stop the car, where my OH SHIT NOW WHAT problem-solving session is immediately interrupted by Noah. 

(Aside: Of course this would happen right when Noah is in that stage where he's just fully realized that cars get into accidents and people get hurt and ambulances and fire trucks are more than just fun sirens. The other car's "bumpy tire" has been a point of constant obsession with him, especially since he overheard me take responsibility for hitting the curb, which meant Mommy was in a Car Accident, which is a Big Scary Deal.)

He's terrified. "Did someone hit us? Did we have a car accident?" he asks, over and over again. I try to reassure him that we're okay, that something just broke on the car but we're okay! We'll be okay! PLEASE ALLOW THE CONSTANT HOLLOW PROMISES COMING FROM MY MOUTH TO SERVE AS YOUR PERSONAL 'EVERYTHING IS OKAY ALARM'.

Next, I call Jason and freak out all over the place at him. The clutch! The car! There was a bang! And smoke! Shit just got REAL, MAN.

Jason asks if I'd tried turning off the air conditioning. I temporarily pixelate myself into invisible radio wave particles that travel through my phone to go murder him on the other end. Then I say yes.

Miraculously, I discover that I have a AAA card in my wallet. Even more miraculously, it has not expired. 

Last Friday Until Like, RIGHT NOW, Oh My God, Is What It Felt Like:

AAA promises a tow, escalates my case because there's a child in the car and other cars are flying by at high speeds, and I watch them from my side mirror in a total panic because a truly SHOCKING number of people have serious issues STAYING ON THEIR SIDE OF THE WHITE LINE. 

A cop arrives and sets out some flares and promises to check back soon to make sure the tow truck arrives, and I think back to the only other time I was ever stranded on the side of the road after a tire blew out on this very same car, on this very same stretch of highway. 

(That blow out was fully and wholly Jason's fault because he took the car to some kind of crazy rally racing thing, where he wore all the tread off the tires in a single day, and then got all caught up in further endless comparison shopping about finding the perfect tires.) 

(Apparently there are all sorts of options besides "round.")

I call Jason back just to point out that hey, are you noticing a pattern here? You put off some kind of important general maintenance thing and yet I'm the one who nearly dies in a fiery blaze of horror on I-270? 

We also agree that he should probably risk driving the other car and come get poor Noah, who greets this news not with relief, but SHEER UNADULTERATED PANIC, because of the BUMPY TIRE! We can't drive with the BUMPY TIRE! We will have a CAR ACCIDENT! The compliceman will YELL AT US! And every other assorted car safety lesson I have ever spouted at him suddenly came back and bit me in the ass. And here I didn't even think he'd been listening.

Jason arrives and offers to stay with the Bad Car while I drive the boys home in the Not Quite As Bad Car. I eye the other car and decide that you know what? I'd really rather stay with the one that's a bit further along in the broke-down-towing process. Thanks though!

I get to ride in a tow truck for the first time ever! It's not really as fun as you'd think.

 

(I pretended like I wasn't taking this picture because OMG, who takes pictures while in a tow truck? Me? Noooooo. Except yes.) 

I take a cab home from the auto repair shop, since Jason broke out in a case of post-bumpy-tire-traumatic stress once he got the boys safely home and didn't want to drive it again. He sends me a text message, though, while I'm waiting for the cab to arrive:

new tire just came.

Today: 

New tire installed on the one car, still sitting around in the zero sum game of Everything Going To Shit All At Once, waiting to hear back from the auto shop about whether the clutch went peacefully or if that bang sound managed to take out the entire transmission in a glorious flaming act of automotive murder-suicide. The guys on the forums said it might be the flywheel or half shaft or clutch hub or maybe the shaftyshaftzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzboring.

Medicinal

WAIT WAIT ONE MORE, just because I cannot believe I missed the middle finger bit yesterday:

 

Seriously, I'm SLIPPING, you guys. 

Ezra's face is just fine today, and he is currently coated in three (3!) different bug-repellant sprays of various natural and toxic varieties. This is how I tackle problems: I just throw the entire medicine cabinet at them. 

We did visit the doctor yesterday -- technically we were already scheduled to be there anyway for make-up vaccines* but of course I managed to squeeze in a little conversation about OH HEY LOOK AT MY DISFIGURED CHILD. He's fine, though I recommend everybody go ahead and buy stock in Zyrtec and Benadryl this summer. 

And speaking of medicine cabinets and doctors' offices, indulge me while I engage in a few rants about the scintillating topic of children's medicines:

1) First up, thanks so much, TYLENOL, for the recent refund check we received from your recent recall. We chucked about $50 worth of your products -- including the hard-to-find dye-free versions because your Red #40-laden regular versions make my preschooler go apeshit, which is always a great combination with already-generally-sick-and-jerky-acting. It was especially awesome to toss out the almost-empty bottles that I'd been generously dosing everybody from all winter.

2) But actually that really doesn't have anything to do with anything else in this entry.

3) Just about every bottle of medicine we own (other than the infant versions, which are pretty much limited to acetaminophen and ibuprofen) does not list a dosage for a child Ezra's age. No weight guidelines, no nothing, just "do not use" or "consult a doctor." I know this is technically in response to a number of parents incorrectly dosing their children and causing a lot of inadvertent harm. And harm is bad! I am not a fan of harm! But can anyone honestly say that removing ANY recommended dosage from the labels is actually a BETTER idea? 

4) Because you know when kids get sick or swollen or asshole-y? After hours. When there's no one answering the phone at the doctor's office, and it's 2:15 in the morning and you're blearily staring at a bottle of never-used-but-about-to-expire Benadryl, wondering if you really do need to call some after-hours hotline or clinic or ER to find out how much you can give a 23-pound 19-month-old. For his mosquito bite.

5) And you know what? People don't call. I mean, I'm sure some do, but plenty don't. They Google. Or they totally guess. Which: Jeez, nothing bad will ever come of that, Children's Medicines Industry, oh noooo.

6) That said, the Internet told us a half teaspoon was a safe dosage for his age and weight, but Jason still insisted that Ezra sleep with us just so he could sit there all night watching him breathe because we are all so going to die of either mosquito bites or Benadryl overdoses, because my husband is kind of a total freak when it comes to his babies, IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED.

7) But then, at the office, the doctor was all, "Bitch, please. No wonder he looks like Eric Stoltz from Mask. Give him the whole freaking teaspoon, it's fine." 

8) *throws hands up in air, gives up*

*Hey! Did you know there's a well-baby visit at 15 months? And then another one at 18 months? And if you only remember the one at 18 months everybody glares at you because your baby needs about four frillion shots and like, is so going to get fucking polio now or something? It is true. I know this because I am a parenting expert on the Internet**. Also, because I forgot about the 15-month check-up and totally got glared at. 

**Which is to say: Do not use, consult a doctor. 

Downhill

So. This happened. And was...awesome.

"This" is the result of all that snow and ice on our roof finally starting to melt. Into our house. I repeat: AWESOME.

I always thought a leaky roof would look like it did in cartoons -- random slow drips coming out of the ceiling, to be caught with strategically-placed buckets in the middle of the room. Ours is more like a lovely cascading waterfall effect pouring through the paint in the window frame, as the wall above puckers and swells, and suddenly it's like, HOORAY! The whole side of this room is all squishy. How fucking cozy.

I won't bore you with all the repair details, except to offer this nugget of advice: If you ever need to file a disaster claim with your homeowner's insurance, do yourself a favor and try not to time it after any kind of...I dunno...ACTUAL DISASTER. Particularly a disaster that happened to affect more than say, four other people.

(CALL ME BACK, STATE FARM. I AM RUNNING OUT OF FRESH TOWELS. ALSO: PATIENCE.)

Oh! Just one more bit of wisdom: If you are among the millions of unemployed who might be all, prostitution isn't sounding so bad anymore, you may be interested to hear just how much money I had to pay some guy to get up on my roof and remove the rest of the snow. Which he did this morning, with a snow shovel and a goddamned hammer. Do you yourself own a snow shovel and a goddamned hammer? Then consider a career in post-snowpocalyptic highway robbery today! (After he finished our roof a woman came running across the street in her bathrobe shrieking HOW MUCH HOW MUCH? He then quoted a price $100 more than what we paid, which was already $100 more than what we were quoted over the phone yesterday. It's a real growth industry!)

***

So enough about my stupid fucking roof. That is stupid. Let's talk about the Olympics.

I love the Olympics. I watch every blessed minute of the coverage, except for the Profiles In Olympic Courage fluff pieces, about how anyone can become an Olympic champion provided they dedicate themselves to a sport full-time by the age of four, along with other benefits like a shitload of money and a parent who JUST SO HAPPENS to be a two-time Olympic champion in the same sport WHAT ARE THE ODDS.

Yeah, those things. That's when I get up for more snacks.

But anyway, I've discovered I've got a bit of anxiety problem on behalf of the athletes. I'm not so worried about falls and crashes -- I don't like those, but you know, they happen and stuff. No, I am absolutely petrified that one of the following things will happen:

1. An athlete will neglect to put on their goggles, helmet or other safety gear before starting down a course.

It FLIPS. ME. OUT. to see them there, all poised and ready to go, with their goggles or face mask on top of their helmet. (And don't even get me started on the people who wait until the last minute to attach a dangling helmet chin strap put it on put it on PUT IT ON.) I am seriously a crazy bundle of nerves for them, twitching and writhing and itching at myself because oh my God, they must be thinking of a million other things, they're totally going to forget their goggles! I would totally forget my goggles! Oh Jesus, is there someone there reminding them? Because I would need someone there to remind me. I would probably hire a special full-time safety-equipment check person. I wonder if anyone would hire me to that? Because I would be good at that job. Hell, I would do it for free because PUT ON YOUR GOGGLES HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.

The minute the athlete successfully puts on their goggles or fastens their helmet, I am immediately calmed and no longer concerned about them in the slightest. Go ahead and wipe out on those moguls, baby. You're all good.

2. A skier or snowboarder won't be able to stop at the bottom of the course and will crash into the little boundary fence-thing.

Yes, because after demonstrating unparalleled skill on an amazingly difficult hill, an Olympic athlete is TOTALLY going to be all, "OH MY GOD, I FORGOT TO LEARN HOW TO STOP! HALP!" Yes, I am probably projecting my own terrible skiing experiences on them. One of which may or may not involve running over a seven-year-old. Who was standing still. Possibly inside the lodge. Whatever. You cannot prove a thing.

Dante's Eardrum

At exactly 8 pm last night, I left my comfortable suburban existence and entered the 12th circle of hell. It started with SOMEONE I WON'T SAY WHO I BET YOU CAN GUESS taking a spectacularly large dump on the bathroom floor. Also, my foot. And then again in the bathtub, which SOMEONE ELSE WHO WAS ALSO IN THE BATHTUB found to be hilarrrrrious. I did not, and responded to their collective gleeful cackles with the very-useful, very-in-charge-of-the-situation admonishment of "STOP BEING SO GROSS!"

After all of that, and a stupid decision to stay up way too late because I suddenly and inexplicably care (AND CARE DEEPLY) about Conan O'Brien, Noah started screaming exactly 15 minutes after we fell asleep. First he said it was his mouth, so we assumed he bit his tongue and shuffled him back to bed without much sympathy. Fifteen minutes after that, we decided maybe he meant his throat, and since he'd had a cold over the weekend, we dosed him with some medicine that we're probably not supposed to dose him with, but those people who say those medicines don't work and a tablespoon of honey works just as well blah blah blah vaporizer plug-ins are welcome to suck on this here pile of snotty tissues.

Fifteen minutes after THAT (translation: once we could not give him additional, more-suitable medicine) he told us it was actually his ear. Oh, his ear. Oh, the pain. THE SCREAMING. He's only had a small handful of ear infections -- about once a year, really -- but he's never been so goddamned enraged by one before. (I had them ALL THE TIME as a kid before getting tubes in kindergarten, and if I reacted that strongly every time I am amazed my parents did not sell me to the gypsies sometime in preschool.)

I hate these kinds of nights, for all the obvious reasons, but mostly because I feel like such a MEAN PERSON: my child is clearly in incredible pain that I can do little about (except think back to all those times I contemplated those earache relief/numbing drops at the drugstore and did. not. buy. them.), and mostly I'm just wishing he would GO BACK TO SLEEP ALREADY, I'M SO TIRED. At one point, I guess in a preschool-logic attempt to get rid of the source of the pain, he opened his bedroom door and hurled his current weird-attachment-object-du-jour (an Elmo puppet book) out into the hallway. "YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND ANYMORE, ELMO!" he sobbed before climbing back into bed to writhe some more.

Later he decided he wanted to sleep on the couch, a request I blearily obliged, especially since I figured I might be able to sleep through some of his more low-level whining and moaning. (See: Person, Mean, Bad.) I got a brief catnap before the screaming amped up again; when I went downstairs to retrieve him he was sitting in the middle of the coffee table and wailing.

Jason and I took turns attempting to comfort him, offering whatever folksy remedies we could think of, counting the hours before we could safely dope him up with hardcore pain medication again (only to find that about 75% of the stuff we had on hand expired two years ago, niiiiiiice). I finally gave up on ever returning to bed and just stayed with him. He would drift off to sleep for about 10 or 15 minutes before the pressure in his ear amped up again and he'd wake up crying, but as long as I was there he wouldn't escalate to full-on screaming. He kept head-butting me all night, in search of the hardest, firmest part of my body to rest his ear against (sadly, he found few acceptable options), and at one point pressed his ear directly against mine, and I could HEAR the horrible fluid thumping around in there. I did not sleep again until...oh...7:15. Which was about 15 minutes before Ezra woke up (covered in snot, might I add), and it was time to start calling schools and bus depots and pediatricians and put a bra on before the babysitter arrived for her second day on the job. Here are my children! And their multiple strains of disease! I'm so happy you're here so I can get work and writing done and be a professional something somethingzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzomg.

We're headed to the doctor momentarily. He is now, of course, totally fine, and absolutely delighted to stay home from school and play with his new favorite person ever. He's even patched things up with poor Elmo. I would like someone to shoot me in the face. With coffee. Or bullets. Either one.

Things Nobody Tells You: Four-Year-Old Edition

1) Learning to properly blow one's own nose is, in fact, a highly advanced skill. If you are able to blow your own nose, congratulations! You've accomplished something with your life after all.

2) Even AFTER one has learned and is perfectly capable of blowing one's own nose, it may take even longer before one has figured out that one SHOULD blow one's own nose, rather than sniff sniff snort snorting snot up through one's nasal cavities ALL THE LIVE-LONG DAY.

3) When one DOES opt to sniff sniff snort snort all the cotton-picking live-long mother-loving day and night, despite MUCH PLEADING AND PROMPTING from one's loving, concerned mother, one might eventually get sick to one's stomach and vomit.

4) A lot. A surprising, alarming lot.

5) Usually at 4 am, or so.

6) Maybe again at 5 am, on the sheets that you just changed, or in the wastebasket.

7) Incidentally, wicker wastebaskets are a poor, poor choice for a child's room.

8) Also, if you type the word "wastebasket" enough times it stops looking like a real word. Like you're referring to tissues as "noseblankets" or "snotwrappers" or something.

9) Anyway.

10) There will also be zero fever or any other signs of illness.

11) Which become obvious exactly two minutes AFTER one calls the bus depot and school to inform them that your poor sick child will not be attending school that day, as he is too busy consuming two bowls of Cheerios, a waffle and two fruit smoothies right before running laps at top speed around the living room while singing the Imagination Movers' theme song.

12) Then it all might happen again a week later.

13) At 3 in the morning, you can pretty much swear that you totally read an article once that said <EXACT THING YOU ARE CURRENTLY DEALING WITH> was one of the first symptoms of childhood cancer.

14) Google is open 24 hours. Also: IT'S MUCUS. BLOW YOUR NOSE. LAND SAKES ALIVE.

15)  If your child insists on taking non-traditional toys to bed to cuddle with, consider yourself lucky. It's way easier to clean vomit off a Candy Land board game than a plush teddy bear. Also: NICE AIM, KID.

Sick Day

I appear to have, as Sundry put it, a touch of the Hamthrax. Or some kind of flu. I went to bed with the beginnings of what I assumed was a cold and woke up in the grips of some horrible, lung-hacking, breath-sucking, stomach-purging, body-aching, I'm-hot-no-I'm-cold-so-cold-oh-my-God-get-these-covers-OFF-ME type of illness.

It's awesome, let me tell you. I managed to drag my diseased ass out of bed and onto the landing where I begged Jason not to go to work and leeeeeeeave me with The Children, Oh God, Not The Children. Then I went back to bed and moaned piteously for awhile. I'm still doing that, actually. Here:

meeeeehhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhh

I know! I write just like I whine. It's a gift!

ANYWAY, so I had Other Plans for today's post -- another chapter of the When You Marry book, some discussion on what educational toys can be manipulated into saying profanity, maybe microwaving some Halloween candy just for the hell of it -- but alas. It's going to be another redirect day.

• I kind of wish I'd chosen a more interesting topic at the Advice Smackdown today, like somebody's sex life problems or major parenting dramz, but no. At some point this week I decided to devote an entire column to laundry detergent. Hmm.
• You could, alternately, read about all the really, really stupid stuff you do when you're newly postpartum and sleep-deprived over at Bounce Back. Unfortunately, I still haven't figured out a way to blame that time I got off the train at Newark instead of New York on my lousy children. I will keep trying, though.
• My second entry for the Slideshare MS Office Parenting Toolbox I Don't Remember The Official Name So I'm Including Them All is also up.
• Over at Mamapop, you know we're doing a little video roundtable thing? Where we all ramble about some pop culturery topic into our webcams and everybody else is so much funnier than me and I swear, I don't really wear as much eye makeup as it appears in these things. Past editions are here. I think the next one goes up on Monday. I hate my voice.
• Also, a Project Runway recap that I wrote (last night, so it's only half-infected with swine flu, though you might not want to touch the photos, which I added this morning) will go up at 2 pm ET. I would link to the specific entry here, but I cannot. Because you cannot link to the future. Yet. Oh, man. That's a good idea. I should totally write that down in my dream journal under Brilliant Ideas I Had Under The Influence Of Theraflu. 
• mmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaauuuuuuggggg, etc.

Blogher, Part One

(Wow. So I originally planned to write about the entire conference in one post. HOURS AGO, I planned that. HOURS, I have been writing this and it really gets away from me at the end and I think I use the word "community" in a totally unironic sense and basically I'm going to publish this and write more tomorrow, because now I have to go punch myself in the neck.)

DAY ONE, THURSDAY

Part One: Not Off To A Real Brain-Trust-Like Start

I woke up at...oh, 4 A.M. in a dread pirate panic over things I had forgotten to pack. I should point out that I was still at home. And had many, many hours left before my flight to pack these things. No matter, I clearly needed to get out of bed and pack them RIGHT THAT SECOND, or ALL WOULD BE LOST. If a blogger goes to Blogher without her business cards, is she really at there? Does she cease to exist? These are the deep thoughts I had at 4:30 A.M. when I found out that not one, but BOTH of my babysitting leads had fallen through, and that I didn't have a confirmed sitter for the Mamapop party after all.

Some people might think: I know! I shall contact a reputable sitting service in the Chicago area! I shall use my SitterCity account! I shall ask the hotel concierge for recommendations!

I thought of none of those things. I contacted Twitter instead.

I...yeah. I know. I KNOW. Very very bad and irresponsible and boneheaded parenting, finding babysitters on Twitter. Except when you find a babysitter like Annabelle. Who was just SO lovely and sweet and Ezra and I both adored her. (I did like, you know, meet with her ahead of time to get a read on the whole "are you going to steal my baby and/or all the hotel room furniture" thing. She passed! I have terrific instincts.)

Anyway, my Twitter babysitter was totally better than your babysitter. I also remembered to pack my business cards.

Part Two: I'm Sick Of These Motherfucking Babies On This Motherfucking Plane

After reading all of your comments and suggestions for airplane-related entertainment for Ezra, I packed a small treasure trove of crappy cheap toys (and toy-like substances) that he'd never seen before. He ended up playing with 1) the laminated emergency procedures pamphlet, 2) plastic cups from the beverage cart, and 3) Jodi.

Jodi warned me that she was a nervous flyer, so our agreement was that in exchange for the baby-wrangling help, I'd do my best to distract her from the fact that we were in a rickety tin can 37,000,000 miles off the ground.

Problem solved!

Part Three: I Went To Blogher & All I Got Was Your Elbow In My Face

After getting to Chicago and to the hotel and into my hotel room and meeting my lovely roommate and eating a burger topped with cheddar cheese AND bacon cheddar cheese sauce and watching my baby sneeze hamburger meat directly into my lovely roommate's face, I was already Hearing Things About Swag. My Twitter stream was full of swag bag descriptions and people were whispering stories about other people getting gross and ugly and grabby and ditching parties as soon they got a bag and pwning wristband systems in order to steal more swag. I mentioned that last year I brought home 1) a tire pressure gauge, 2) a bottle opener keychain and 3) a magic 8 ball. I was informed that this year was PROBABLY going to be a little different.

I stuck Ezra in a sling and decided to check out the People's Party. It was loud. And crowded. Insanely crowded. By the time I filed into the room and realized OH MY GOD, the room was easily three times too small for the number of people crushing through the door, I was kind of stuck. I spent a few bewildered moments shouting at people I knew before I realized what a huge mistake it was, bringing Ezra in there, and that I absolutely had to leave. This realization was cemented when someone abruptly pushed past me towards the swag bags, I saw Ezra's head kind of...jerk to the side, and when I looked down at him his eyes were wide with surprise...and fear...AND PAIN. He dissolved into a wail.

People, someone goddamn elbowed my baby in the face. While rushing for SWAG. At a party sponsored by freaking PBS Sprout.

At the time, I 100% totally and completely blamed myself. I was horrified that I'd unwittingly brought my baby to a party where he wasn't SAFE. I mean, Twitter babysitters aside (which...you know I'm taking a little creative license with that, as I absolutely would never leave him with someone who I didn't believe was responsible and trustworthy), I take my care of my little people very seriously. I felt stupid for even thinking that this was a good idea. And I left, taking my own swag bag only after Jenny insisted I take one. ("But I'm not staying! Is that okay?") I Twittered about being stuck alone in the hotel room feeling sorry for myself, too embarassed to admit that my baby got hurt because I wanted to wear a pretty dress and get a drink ticket.

Part Four: We Used To Blog Uphill In The Snow, Both Ways, Hand-Coding CSS Until Our Fingers Bled, And We Liked It

I still blame myself, in part. The room was crowded and hard to navigate and while Ezra wasn't the only child there, I was asking too much of him, after a long day of travel and super-short naps and a heapload of sensory overload. And really, he's FINE. He's not bruised, he didn't get a black eye, maybe the mystery elbower had to pee, or something. Once we got back to the hotel room he was all smiles.

But as the weekend progressed and the swag thing turned into a Swag Thing (to the point that I commented how nice it was, since I didn't miss Noah as much I thought I would, what with being surrounded by toddlers), the Elbow Incident became oddly emblematic of the whole attitude. People completely disregarding other people's personal space and hard work (seriously, planning those parties takes EFFORT, you guys) and just goddamn common decency. Would let your kid show up at a birthday party, grab a handful of cake and a goodie bag and leave? Would you let him cheat at the games at Chuck E. Cheese, just so he could get more crappy prize tickets? Would you sit by and let her bitch on Christmas about not getting the gift she REALLY wanted, or whine that the gifts she got didn't cost enough?

God. I feel old and finger-waggy, but get a fucking grip, people.

And yet.

I've gone on some nice trips, I've gotten some really nice gifts from companies, I've gotten laughably bad product pitches that I would never in a million years want or use or "review." I've alternated between being delighted by the attention and annoyed by the way it's changed our community, I've struggled to keep that balance between wanting my blog to be "successful" and wanting my blog to be...you know, MY STUPID LITTLE BLOG.

And yet, even I need the occasional dose of perspective.

When I started writing online, signing up for a brand-new service called "Typepad," nobody really liked the word "blog." The people I read wrote journals or diaries. There was a still a wide gap between the two groups, a definite sense of old guard vs. new upstarts. Moveable Type was taking over the old hand-coded clunky sites, your free blogging platforms were Diaryland or livejournal or Blogger and when Diary-X went down, people lost everything because the entire service existed on one dude's hard drive that he'd forgotten to back up. Oh, man. There were A-listers and people who wanted to be the A-listers and people who spent most of their time complaining about the A-listers. People fretted over whether the new generation of "bloggers" were ruining the community, now that it was so easy to start a site. If you had your own site the hosting could cost you a fortune, since there was no Flickr or Vimeo, but there was still endless debate over whether an Amazon Wish List or PayPal Donate button made you a tacky sellout. Are bloggers even writers? Are all web writers bloggers? No! Yes! Sometimes!

When Google text ads started showing up on PERSONAL WEBSITES, the wank level went through the roof.

In summary: six short years on the Web and I'm a freaking dinosaur, apparently, but I guess my point is that there has always been something threatening the community. We have been on the brink of sellout-y destruction for as long as I've been doing this, and I'm pretty sure me and my weirdly-named blog and TWOP-aping writing style were once considered harbingers of literary doom and made fun of on some old-skool message board. Now we all just get to overreact on Twitter.

In other words, it's all going to be okay, as long as we at least stop elbowing each other in the face.

(I promise this entry is the only one where I'll get preachy and philosophical about Blogher. I had a fantastic time and did a shitload of stupid things that did not involve people beating up babies for free pens.)

Testing, Testing

Why, hello! Sooooo very glad to be back in the land of working Internet access. Ours was shut off yesterday. Not "down," shut off. Along with our cable. Because we rule at life and money. RULE I SAY.

Our credit/debit card numbers were apparently "compromised" after a break-in at our bank, so we were issued new ones a few months ago. And while we THOUGHT we'd gone and updated all the various auto-billing and auto-pay thingies, I guess we never got around to the Internet and cable. And the bills kept arriving in the mail, past due balances and late fees adding up month after month, but we did not realize this, because, well. We never opened the envelopes. Because of the auto-pay! RUN MY LIFE, CREDIT-BOTS.

At some point, Jason realized Verizon was trying to bill a no-longer-valid card and updated it. And then Verizon tried to charge the new card for...like...many hundreds of dollars in past-due charges. And the new card was rejected, because we only had...like...zero hundreds of dollars in the account. And boom! Shut off and shut down.

I don't want to bore y'all to death with the run-down of What It Took to get everything turned back on yesterday, but let me summarize thusly: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, VERIZON FIOS. I may be broke, but I still have my pride and a general understanding of the "transfer" function on most business phones. Stop telling me I need to call another number after I've spent 45 minutes on the number the "denial of service" roadblock page on my computer told me to call, alternately arguing with an automated-voice-bot thing or on hold with someone who 1) cannot find my account, and/or 2) cannot take my payment ANYWAY, and/or 3) cannot transfer me to someone who can, because I need to call another number.

But hey! Don't forget to remind me for the three dozenth time that I can pay my bill online. Which is a FANTASTIC idea. Quick, turn my Internet access back on so I can get online to pay my bill to get my Internet access turned back on and OH SHIT I'VE FALLEN INTO A LOGIC WORMHOLE AAAAHHHHHHHHHH

(I eventually paid using my phone. Which hoooo, boy, THAT was a good time, trying to correctly enter a 20-digit account number and credit card information without fat-fingering anything, and also I had to GUESS at my account balance because the login you use to pay your bill is not the same login you use to view your bill, I mean, of course it isn't, and I didn't have that other login, because every time I tried to register for it Verizon told me they couldn't find my account, please call Customer Service, eat shit and die.)

(Wait. Did I say something about NOT boring you with that story? Huh. I am quite a liar!)

Anyway. Here. Look at some photos of some kids I know.

(Here's Noah back in the day, in the same outfit, though slightly younger and a LOT balder.)