Give me 2 CC's of reality...stat!

My kid has a fever. All day it hovered in the 102/103 range. He camped out on the couch ALL DAY. Mostly sleeping. Occasionally waking up for some water or V8 Splash or a slice of apple or whatever. He even attempted a book report that isn't due until FRIDAY...wtf? Clearly he was delirious from the fever (and after reading what he wrote I hope to god that's the case). Before I shuttled him off to bed I gave him some Tylenol to bring down the fever and help him get through the night after sleeping the day away.

I did not panic. I did not call the doctor, local swine flu hotline or the CDC. I did not alert the media or don a hazmat suit or spray him down with disinfectant. For fuck's sake people, its a fever. The outlaws on the other hand freaked out. They were begging me, desperately pleading with me to take him to THE HOSPITAL. They acted like he was patient zero in Outbreak 2.

My mother outlaw actually wanted me to check that he was still breathing. I told her, "He just got up and went to the bathroom and climbed back into his nest of blankets on the sofa. I'm pretty sure he's not dead." I don't think she believed me. Here's how the conversation went...the stuff in [...] is what I did not say out loud. "Just humor me, Silver? [Humor you? Where's my dump truck?!] Take him to the doctor? [No] We have insurance, that's what it's for. [I don't care] What are you going to do if the fever goes up? [Give him Tylenol] Do you even know the protocol for that? [If it goes over 104, throw him in a lukewarm bath] What if it goes up in the middle of the night? [Deal with it] That's the worst time. [eye roll] Just consider taking him to the doctor. [No] They can run tests, just to make sure. [It's not the swine flu] It couldn't hurt anything. [bullshit] It might actually help. [You're an idiot] I have Pedialyte, Pedialyte popsicles, apple juice, Tylenol. [Me too] I can bring that over...or do you just want me to leave my ass at home? [Leave your ass at home]"

What I said was: "He's just got a fever. He's sleeping. I haven't given him Tylenol yet because I am letting his body do the work to fight off whatever he's got; that's what a fever is for. He isn't convulsing. He's not foaming at the mouth. It hasn't even been a whole day." I probably shouldn't have said anything about convulsions and foaming at the mouth. That must have given her a pretty frightening visual because she proceeded with more blah, blah bullshit to try to get me to freak out along with her. Holy fucking cow lady, I am not drinking your crazy juice. Back the fuck off.

Here's the thing, this is a woman who's only son is in a state of advanced alcoholism, probably dying of liver disease, and she won't take him to get help in the form of medicine, rehab, pysch center, whatever, take your pick. Anything could help here. She just thinks he needs to quit drinkin' and voila! Problem solved. She doesn't get that he HAS to drink at this point because if he quits cold turkey it could kill him. She thinks taking the liquor out of the house in Carolina will keep him sober. Apparently she's assuming that the rest of Carolina has quit selling alcohol (including the bar at the golf course he owns and goes to every day? Really?)

It's pretty sad actually. I'm not making light of it. He's in this weird Leaving Las Vegas kind of scenario...well, without the Elisabeth Shue character, although plenty of hooker-types seem to be auditioning for that role. Alright, maybe I am making a little light of it, but that's just because I use humor to deal with almost everything. He was in the hospital last Thanksgiving after throwing up bile for days. DAYS. THROWING UP BILE. And the mother outlaw wasn't even the one who suggested he go to the hospital. (How's THAT for hypocrisy? My kid has the sniffles and you're ready to send him to the Mayo Clinic but your kid has acute liver disease and you turn a blind eye? Huh?!) Anyway, he hasn't been to a follow up doctor since then...well, maybe not since February but still... I'm not going to out all his idiot behavior since then but I can tell you one thing for certain...it doesn't have anything to do with him getting better. All signs point to him kicking off sooner than later and I don't know how to brace my kids for that.

I tried to tell them once. This is how that went: Hey guys? You know, your Dad's pretty sick. Really? You knew that? You hear him throwing up a lot? Yes, that time he was in the hospital and we took him balloons, it's about that. He's not doing anything to make himself better. And I'm a little worried about him. Yes, he should eat more vegetables and exercise. What if he doesn't do that? No, Brooks is right. He could end up like Gram (Gram is my Mom; she died two years ago, not from liver disease).

And then the conversation fell apart. A little talking about what happens after you die, a little more dinner, then some iCarly. Then their Dad called. The first words out of the nine year old's mouth, "So, Dad, I hear you're sick." A wide eyed look from me while I mimed the universal symbol for "zip it!" (pretending to zip lips shut and turn the lock) and thankgod he changed the subject.

So anyway, my kid has a fever. I'm keeping him home from school. Last week the mother outlaw was convinced he was going to be abducted getting off the bus in front of the house because of the little girl in Florida (nope). When he'd get the sniffles in pre-school she was convinced he had an ear infection (nope). When he I took him out for walks after he was born she was convinced he was going to get bit by a mosquito and get encephalitis (nope). Yet, when he split his lip on the deck at her house when he was one she didn't want me to take him to the doctor...I did. 9/11/2001. ER. Plastic surgeon. Four stitches. When my mother was in the hospital I told her it was serious, asked her if she could pick the boys up from school. She thought I was exaggerating. My mother died 2 hours later.

I'm going to take medical advice from whom? Just give me the damn dump truck.

Thank you.

The Fall Purge

Two hundred dollars and a dump truck. This is what I am getting from the outlaws this week. Although it is Autumn, I am going through my version of Spring Cleaning. I'm calling it the Fall Purge. Something about the changing of the weather and the insane amount of free time I have has made me aware of all the crap I have lying around the house that has become such a fixture I don't even notice it anymore. I don't use it, don't need it, it has become covered with other junk I neither use or need any longer...time to go. But there's SO MUCH OF IT and some of it is big. Like a desk -- a particle board, assemble yourself, falling apart desk -- that used to hold my old monolith of a computer before I got the new, super-speedy, portable, thank-you-dad laptop. I haven't used that desk in at least a year. Not sat down at it I mean. It became a junk catcher. So yesterday afternoon amid homework help and a volley of darkly hilarious emails, I disassembled it. Have I mentioned how much I love demolition? So refreshing. Anyway...it's in the garage now, in pieces among a myriad of other trash the city won't haul away. I have been joking about renting one of those remodeling dumpsters for a while now. Ha ha. But really...

So, I called the mother outlaw to see if she knew how to go about renting one. She offered up the family dump truck instead. "Family dump truck" you ask? Yep, they're in construction so they've got all kinds of useful stuff like that. If I could only commandeer the backhoe for a day or two (and a minion to go with), I could do some serious landscaping. Ah, pipe dreams. Back to the point, the dump truck should be backed into my yard sometime in the next few days. I am so excited! Is there something wrong with me that I am looking forward to having a gigantic, probably gross-looking dump truck on my property soon? Geez, I hope not.

Now the only trick is that I really have to get serious about all the stuff I am going to throw away. Away. ForEVER. For the last 11 years "away" has meant my garage. Now my garage has gotten to the point where you cannot walk through it without stepping over something, tripping over something or knocking something (probably hazardous) over. Half-empty paint cans, ratty old beach chairs, kid-sized ATVs that haven't been charged in half a decade because 1) we've exceeded the recommended weight limit and 2) they take freakin' 12 hours to charge (who has time for that?!) and a ton, probably a literal ton, of other stuff I haven't even thought of in YEARS. And now I am going to get rid of it. For real. I can feel the anxiety coming on.

The old tape is playing through my head, "Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it." What if I neeeeeed this stuff down the road? I could take pictures of it and sell it on craigslist or ebay couldn't I? Well, of course I could, but I am not going to because if I were going to I would have done. that. by. now. Let's be real here. I could have a garage sale and make some money off it couldn't I? Hell the fuck no I couldn't. I had a garage sale ONCE and it was a nightmare. I only made $80 and had to deal with weird people all day...it was NOT worth it. Plus a lot of this stuff is actual trash, not "trash to treasure" stuff, just plain old trash. Not like anyone is going to say, "Ooooh, an empty beer box from 2005 that never made it to the recycling can! Quick, call Antiques Roadshow!" And don't people comb the dump looking for what they consider perfectly usable stuff? I would really be doing some dump diver a favor by putting that old as hell Barbie Corvette out to pasture wouldn't I? It's like a public service...I'm such a giver.

At this juncture I have to get detached and surgical about this project. I have to be like one of those organizing experts on the decluttering home improvement shows. You've seen these shows, right? They go into someones house and every room is piled to the ceiling with seventeen sofas, newspapers since the Berlin Wall came down, small pets skittering about and the dad's Beanie Baby collection. What is it with men and Beanie Babies...seriously, it's never the women who keep these things. I think they're secretly gay. Anyway, the experts ridicule the homeowner for hoarding and throw out all their accumulated keepsakes that have morphed into complete garbage due to neglect. Then they makeover the whole house transforming it into a contemporary wonderland. "Oh my god! I have a floor! And windows! There's so much space; this is amazing!" Their formerly dusty old sports equipment has become stunning wall art and they sold the Beanie Babies for $1000 to some other closeted dad... I don't think I have a contemporary wonderland in my future, but if I don't get rid of this STUFF I'm going to be eligible for that type of decluttering overhaul. God, please, I don't want to be THAT girl. I probably already am that girl though. Regular people don't require their own personal dump truck to declutter their houses. Fuck.

I am going to schedule a thrift store pickup for whatever I don't consider trashy enough to throw into the truck. I have to schedule a thrift store pickup because I KNOW I am not going to drive it anywhere. Know how I know this? Because I thought I was going to drop it off somewhere LAST year and it's all still sitting in the goddamn garage. I mean it this time. So be checking the thrift stores for a sudden infusion of candy dishes, Mega Blocks and the circa 1992 hair barrettes with giant floppy bows (and I apologize now if that fashion trend makes a comeback for anyone over the age of 6).

Finding a point

You know, I really don't know what the hell I'm doing here sometimes.  I've just discovered a few blogs, really well written pieces of observational text in my opinion, and now I'm questioning exactly what it is I want to do with this thing.  It's nice...no, nice isn't the right word...it's liberating?  comforting?  to find people, complete strangers, out in web space who share similar points of view.  It's also a teensy bit scary to know that some of these people are clinically depressed...or have been...or are medicated.  Does this mean I am too?  Do I need meds?  I don't want meds.  Maybe I do, but I just don't know I do because I'm not on them and I'm skeptical of the entire pharmaceutical industry.  More paranoid than skeptical...but skeptical nonetheless.  Jesus, I probably do need medication. 

Anyway, that's not the point.  The point is that I have read some of this stuff, probably just the tip of the iceberg, and I love it.  I stumbled onto it quite by accident when doing a Google search on the phenomenon of people who fill the back windows of their vehicles with beanie babies.  Such a random thing to see, but I saw that kind of car in a parking lot last week and got curious.  Was I missing a trend here?  I didn't know they still even made beanie babies.  Is there a community for this?  So, I googled and wham!  Found a delightfully snarky post about this exact thing ...and then a whole blog universe opened up.  Made me want to write more.  Made me want to have something more to say than just lamenting about my moderately fucked up life with limited follow through. 

This happened when I very first started blogging also.  I bounced onto a blog on myspace and was entirely captivated.  I spent one whole day reading every post this girl had written.  Her name started with an L.  What was that?  I should try to see if she's written anything else since then.  I mean I was hooked.  And inspired.  All I wanted to do was find witty things to say about the weird shit I was dealing with at the time.  My X had just left, ants had shorted out my HVAC unit.  Ants!  Surely I could find pithy things to say about that.  Hell, I cracked my friends up with this material all the time; why not write about it and regale other complete strangers with the bizarre, fascinating tales that consumed my otherwise normal-seeming suburban existence?  Tah dah!  Blog born.  It was so much fun.  Eventually it got weird though.  I felt like too many strangers were knowing too much about me and I shut the whole damn thing down.  Such a mistake.  I really miss some of those early posts.  There was one in particular about pens in space.  Sounds ridiculous now, but I was pretty proud of it.  I wish I could find that again.  Too many evolutions of computers and nothing saved to disc probably makes that one gone forever.  Damn.

Now I have a whole other myspace incarnation but I don't want to blog there anymore; hardly even want to log on there anymore.  Seems so juvenile now.  I mean, I am thirty freakin' seven, what the hell am I doing with a myspace?!  Honestly.  It's practically embarassing sometimes.  What the hell was her name?  Lane?  Lexy?  Something mildly unusual.  She had a dog named Brooklyn, I know that...hmmm.  I digress, I did surf around the other day about how to import my second generation myspace blog to here.  I think I even tried it...I remember it not working.  Made the whole stupid computer completely freeze up.  I bagged it without going further.  Not sure who I want to see this anyway.  Not sure who would even want to see this. 

Who would want to keep updated on what I have to say?  Rambling on about the useless drivel that consumes me on a (somewhat) daily basis?  Meandering through sleepless nights when I should be getting my 8 hours (which is usually only about 5 or 6 because I am a late-night-sitter-upper out of extreme habit)?  Seriously, who in the world...?  And then I read someone's post about an imaginary beaver that makes salsa, and another one about how someone else thinks a ringing telephone is inherently rude.  It didn't make me think, "What a jackass thing to write about.  Who cares?!"  It made me think, "Oooh, right on.  I have got to focus.  Use more words.  Better words. Find a fucking point."  No one is going to turn my strange little corner of the world into a weekly Showtime series if I don't get some of it seriously documented while it's still fresh.  Still working that aspect of it.  There are some parties who might feel that they are unfairly portrayed in the story of my life.  I am really not ready to deal with that in the 3D world just yet.  Perhaps another point in favor of the medication I should probably be prescribed by the therapist I should be seeing.  If I had insurance.  Or if pharmaceutical companies didn't scare the crap out of me...

Lacy! Her name was Lacy. I knew it would come to me eventually.

Anyway, there are other things I could write about now, like how much I love not itching.  I had a violent case of poison ivy a few weeks ago and now that it's gone I have at least one moment every day when I am aware of no longer being broken out in a gruesome, weeping rash that made me want to peel all the skin off my person.  Odd the things you take for granted.  Not itching.  I could write about the high-end grocery store where I used to shop but had to part ways with when my X stopped giving me money for a while.  I was there last week getting foofy items for a gourmet pity party of one...'cause that's where all the gourmet shit is supposed to be, right?  In the high-end grocery store?  They didn't have a goddamn thing I wanted but every ten feet throughout the store, like idiot magnets, were brightly accessorized, overpriced, useless, impulse-buy displays.  The general deli area was awash in bleach fumes so noxious my gag reflex kicked in ...and no one batted a lifted eyelash.  The whole scene was instantly hilarious and disturbing.

So anyway, I guess the point of this post is that I need to get my head on a little straighter about where I want to go with the blog.  I want to write more regularly.  Now granted, I'd rather it not be at 3 in the morning when my brain won't shut the hell up, but whatever, inspiration happens when it happens.  I want to write about all the strange, ridiculous things out there.  Cultivate a writer's eye; better express the hilarity I so often find amid the mundane.  I would say express it less sarcastically but I don't think I can give that up.

And that is what was keeping me up. Hell, now it's four in the morning.  I don't know if I should even try to sleep at this point.  I would surely hit the snooze button too many times in the "morning" morning (two hours from now) resulting in a late wake-up time for everyone.  Frantic running around trying to find shoes and signed progress reports...ugh...what a mess.  Alright coffee...game on.  Tonight, sleep is for the weak.

Don't mess with my kid

I need to vent about a couple of things

First off, there's this website weeworld.  It doesn't have anything to do with the Wii, it shouldn't have anything to do with my kid.  All the cool kids in school are on it, even though you have to be 13 to register and they are not.  They are 9.  This site is like a pedophile's playground.  All the avatars look like little badass, trashy South Park characters and they can be accessorized with sodas, skateboards, mustaches, bikinis...dear gawd, it's awful.  And the kids can chat with each other or leave messages on each other's walls.  All they're talking about is who's dating whom, who's cheating on whom (cheating...seriously...did I mention they're freaking NINE??...what kind of "cheating" can really be going on here?!).  Anyway, I am wicked pissed about this site and that there are 9 year olds on it.  I called a parent about it. She thanked me for the heads up.  I felt like I had done a good thing.  I would call another parent of a particularly active seeming girl who "just wants a boyfriend with long hair and skinny jeans who isn't afraid to kiss her anywhere."  Now I'm sure she means the school cafeteria or the fucking playground equipment, but that can be read in an entirely different way.  Anyway, I was going to call this little chippie's mom, but I can't find her phone number.  My 9 year old is thrilled that I can't find it, I suspect he's hiding the school directory from me in fact.  He doesn't want to be ostracized because his mom is going to blow the whistle on potentially super-dangerous internet activity among his peers.  I get it, I really do, but I can't let this go.  I can't in good conscience know about this and let it continue without raising the alarm to other parents.  If they choose to let their little darlings continue to play on the site after I bring it to their attention...well, that's their problem.  My work will be done.

Alright, secondly...there are neighborhood kids who think it great sport to huck soccer balls at my kids when they're riding past on their bikes.  They follow this activity by chasing after them with lacrosse sticks.  Not acceptable!  I have no problem riding my bike over to them and telling them to knock it the hell off and if I hear reports of this behavior in the future I WILL tell their parents and they will NOT be happy about it.  This also mortifies the 9 year old, but I can't let this shit continue either.  Now, I'm not saying that my kids have to be totally sheltered from the outside world.  I'm not one of those parents that won't let the kids leave the house without a helmet and full padding.  I can't stand those parents actually.  Think they're idiots.  Mainly because their kids are the ones swinging goddamn lacrosse sticks at mine, with helmets on.  These parents tell my kids they can't play at their house because they aren't wearing enough protective gear.  Well, clearly, to play around their little hellchildren, they need it.  Never fucking mind. 

Now, I don't normally go off the spool about crazyass kid behavior.  Got into a dirt clog fight at the cemetery, did you?  Hit in the eye you say?  Eh, that's the breaks kid.  There's a hobo living in the woods next to the park?  You're positive?  Stay out of the freakin' woods.  You want to ride your bike to the convenience store on the corner to get candy?  Fine, just let me know the moment you get back into the neighborhood...and let me take your picture first so I have something current to show the cops when you get abducted.  My kids pretty much have more freedom than most other kids in our Pleasant Valley, Stepford-like neighborhood, but when they get tormented (repeatedly) by these little bastards...now we got a problem.  I do not hesistate to put the fear of god into these children; I don't care if they are 9 or 10 and as tall as me (I blame that on the steroids in their food).  One of these days they're going to push me far enough and I WILL contact their parents.  That's going to be one hell of a day.

And that is my momentary rant about parenting.

People Watching

Whenever someone types "ROFLMFAO" I think, "Really?  You can string together a complex acronym like that but the word 'definitely' comes along and stumps you?  You gotta throw an 'a' in there?"  If you hesitate even a moment on that one, pick another fucking word. Even an "oh yeah" would suffice.  The aforementioned acronym is the Black Belt for idiots by the way, which is slightly weird because it isn't even easy to type especially in ALL CAPS (well, it isn't easy if you type all caps with one pinkie on the shift key the way I do).  Oh, and the number of exclamation points afterward shows the degree of Idiot Black Belt one has achieved.


I am horrible at being a groupie.  I have probably mentioned this before, but I am constantly reminded that I suck at it.  I would never in a million, bajillion years go on a dating reality show like The Bachelor.  I can't compete in a cougar den.  Wait, I could compete but when the other women I'm up against are the ROFLMFAO type...christ on a crutch, I really don't want to.  Honestly, if that's the kind of chick a guy is going dig on, he will not dig on me.  You know why?  Because I'll see that he's an acronym lover and I'll start making fun of him to his face.  I'll do it with a brilliant smile, but eventually he'll pick up on the sarcasm and think I'm mean.  He won't be wrong.

This is the part where people say, "Aw, you're too picky. Give him a chance, you never know."  To that I say, "Shut up."  I do know.  This is what life experience is for, people.  You live, you learn and you move on.  For example: I will never date a 42 year old unemployed pool boy...again.  The mid-30s guy living with his parents, just waiting for his band to make it big? nope.  40-something with a name-engraved Bible and the entire Ann Coulter library...notsomuch.  Guys like that are distracted by the next boob job that walks into the room and leave me wondering what I could have done better to keep their attention.  Oh sure, I could vamp it up with scented body glitter or run out and get a badass dolphin tattoo, but I'm not going to.  If you have done this I am sure it made sense at the time.  I hope it worked for you.  My reason for not doing things like this is my own. Don't judge.

So anyway, if I think a guy is cute and I strike up a conversation then get bumped by the perma-tan chick with a layer of foundation reminiscent of a Glamour Shots gift package...thank you for the Cliff's Notes version of what a relationship with you would be like.

P.S. This is not an invitation for applications, so run along back to your WoW/ferret/pit bull/LOTR box set/wife...now.