Ok, not really. I know mental illness is not something to laugh at.  Unless it’s in comic form.

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 This weekend we’ve had the opportunity to borrow an XO Laptop. If you haven’t heard of it, the One Laptop Per Child program is designed to provide inexpensive, rugged laptops for children in developing countries.  The creators of the xo laptop define their mission like this:

OLPC is not, at heart, a technology program, nor is the XO a product in any conventional sense of the word. OLPC is a non-profit organization providing a means to an end—an end that sees children in even the most remote regions of the globe being given the opportunity to tap into their own potential, to be exposed to a whole world of ideas, and to contribute to a more productive and saner world community.

One computer costs $200.  That’s a small price to pay to contribute to the education of a child who might never have an opportunity like this otherwise.

It turns out some North Americans are also intrigued by the product and want to purchase the cheap and adorable, child-sized, green laptops for their kids.  OLPC has agreed that consumers may purchase one for their own family if they first buy one to donate. So essentially, it is a $400 pint-sized laptop.  Or, as it has turned out to be in our household, a $400 pint-sized, coveted piece of plastic over which the children are willing to beat each other senseless.

Both of them are too young to do anything besides hammer on the keyboard.  Lucky for us (and the friend who is letting us borrow it), this is a hardy piece of equipment, designed for use by children is a variety of climates. Basically the computer has become the center of all arguments from the second it entered our household.  The minute they laid their beady little eyes on this green jewel they commenced with the ear shattering shrieking, hair pulling, slapping, scratching, biting, etc.  You’d think it was made of pure chocolate.

I’m now convinced, more than ever, that this baby-laptop is not something our kids need.  To save their lives.  Because I. will. kill. them. if I hear “IT’S MY TURN ON THE COMPUUUUUTER!!!” one more blessed time.

Also. Compared to most of the world, they are already more than privileged.  We already have two computers in our household in which they have shown only minor interest (perhaps because they are not colourful and virtually indestructible – and also built out of candy-coated-crack-cocaine) and they will have plenty of opportunities to use computers in their lives.  I think, if I were to spend $400 and purchase two laptops, I’d be sending both of them off the continent.  If for no other reason than to avoid getting blood on the carpet.

  

Oh, yes, they look so friendly with each other now. But only because we washed all the blood off the computer. 

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Mommy I think I’m more smarter than you.
-Avery, age 4

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Well, despite my whining about the healthcare system letting me down, and the fact that Kieran can’t hear because of the build-up of rotten ear juices in his head that keeps turning into a massive double ear infection, it turns out my anxiety was in vain.  We have scored an appointment with the Ear/Nose/Throat specialist this Thursday and not in May as we had originally been told! It appears that they had pity on us and have squeezed us in early!  We still don’t know if he will be able to get in for surgery quickly (if he does, in fact, need surgery), but we are finally getting somewhere with this issue that we’ve been dealing with for over a year and I couldn’t be more relieved.  Thanks for all the happy thoughts you’ve been sending our way. We appreciate them.

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Over the past six months the hubby has been a busy little beaver, applying for jobs at a variety of companies.  The tweaking of resumes and the composing of cover letters have been frequent topics of conversation in our home.  Thus far, my mechanism for coping with the uncertainty of our situation has been to nag my husband incessantly and wail about how we’re going to end up living in a cardboard box in an alley somewhere.  Surprisingly, this is not bringing about the kind of results I had hoped for.  So I’ve devised a plan.  From now on, any time the hubs sends out a CV to a new company I’m going to include the following pleasant note from myself:

Dear Corporate Businessperson,

The CV you are about to read is absolutely worth your time. I promise!  Because my husband is really, really, smart and you will not regret hiring him. He has the best attitude and works the hardest of anyone I know. He has more passion and more instinct for this business (whatever business it is that you run) than any of the other people you might be thinking are suited for the job.  You should really hire him.

Please know that you are holding my future in your hands.  I can’t over-emphasize how very tense I am about settling what the next step in our life will be. If you intend to fool around with us by dragging out the interview process, or making us wait weeks (or months) before letting us know you aren’t interested, please understand that I will not hesitate to set fire to your place of business, your vehicle, your home and your person.  It’s not that I’m a psychopath violent person. It’s just that the pressure is building and it’s going to vent somewhere. Screwing with us will only divert the path of my fury in your direction.

So why don’t we just agree that my husband is the best person for the job and be done with it?  Trust me, he’s terrific.

Thank you for your time!

Ever so sincerely,

Shannon

What do you think?  Too intense?

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Go over and say hi to Sassy. You will laugh. Trust me on this.

Did I mention that we went out on a date last weekend?  No?  Well let me tell you all about it. I know you’re dying to hear!  It was kind of a post-valentine’s day date in which we actually paid a babysitter and left the house.  I have two points of interest gleaned from our night on the town to share:

1) The Drunk: We ate dinner at a local restaurant which was busy enough.  We had to wait for half an hour before we were seated which was ok because we weren’t in a hurry.  While we were waiting I noticed a man in a wheelchair seated at a table in the restaurant. I didn’t spend much time contemplating said diner as I had many more important things to focus on. (Like why every single woman between age twelve and thirty who walked in the door was wearing Uggs and skinny jeans.  Listen, I’m no rock star.  But I was ready to start giving out fashion advice because skinny jeans? They’re called skinny for a reason, people! Also, those really short Uggs look good on no one. Except people with exceptionally long legs.  Short Uggs + skinny jeans = not cool.)

When we were seated we ended up sitting at a table right next to Old Wheelchair Guy.  When we first sat down he was alone at a cleared table, slumped over with his eyes closed.  At first I thought it was comical that he was falling asleep at a table. But as we continued our dining experience we became increasingly uncomfortable as the gentleman consumed pint after pint of beer and other alcoholic beverages, only managing to stay conscious for thirty second intervals between sips.  He was sitting at a table intended for six to eight people. Alone.  At 8:00pm on a Saturday night. In a busy restaurant.  Wasted.

It’s hard to enjoy your meal when there’s a drunk at the next table, albeit a quiet one.  We were unsure what the situation was. Perhaps he had been there with dining companions who left? I hadn’t noticed if he was alone while we were waiting. Maybe they seated him in the restaurant instead of at the bar because of his handicap? Maybe he was tipping reeeally well?

What do you think? Was it right for the restaurant to allow this man, clearly very intoxicated, to continue to drink himself into a stupor in front of their other diners which included children (it’s a family restaurant)?  We were not the only ones who were uncomfortable.  There were many uncomfortable glances in his direction. Some looked concerned. Others looked disapproving.  Would it have been wrong for the servers to gently recommend the man call a taxi?

I don’t know what the story was.  By the end of our hour and a half at our table we were composing postcards to send to PostSecret on behalf of our friend, the drunk.  “I spent four hours in a busy restaurant taking up a large table because I knew they would never ask me to leave because I was sitting in a wheelchair.” “I go to busy restaurants alone to watch the happy families.  I always leave drunk.”  “I pretended to be drunk so I could look down the waitress’ shirt when she bent over to talk to me.” Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of the situation. I was a little disturbed by it. But we didn’t know what to do. And it was our first date since Christmas.  I just wanted to spend some time complaining about how stressed out I feel actually talking to my husband.

2) The Movie: If you ever have reason to go to a movie with my husband do NOT, for the love of everything holy, see anything involving computer/software dialogue of any kind. Actually, if you’re going to a movie with my husband I want to know why I’m not invited.  We never get out and now he’s going to movies with YOU?  Er…sorry.  Feeling a bit sensitive these days.

We went to see Untraceable which was basically just a slightly more gory episode of Criminal Minds and not really that great. But there are a few scenes in which the characters start talking all Techy. If you are like me (and, I think, the majority of the population of North America) you hear “Blah blah memory card blah blah blah-blah bites blah blah backup blah server blah blah blah.”

If you are my husband and you actually understand what is being said, you may actually discover that what the characters are saying is, in fact, nonsense.  In fact, they might as well go ahead and say “Blah blah supercomputer blah blah password blah blah-blah hacked”.  The rest of us continue on in blissful ignorance while the Man next to me will be huffing and sighing and rolling his eyes. Every time I looked over at him during these scenes he just shook his head sadly at the state of script-writing in the world today.  From now on we need to restrict our movie viewing to stories set in the distant future or historical films where we are unaware of the accuracy of the details.

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We sent our own email to the Landlord today:

Dear Landlord,

Try reading our contract. You may be surprised to discover it requires that you let us continue renting on a monthly lease after our initial lease is up.  Or, if you need something more threatening, the Residential Tenancies Act.  So you can just suck it. We’re staying.  Not that we aren’t eager to get out of this less-than-stellar living arrangement.  But we’ll do it on our own terms, thanks.

Your tenants. 

Thank you to those friends who totally came to my rescue in the past few days with encouragement and with reassurances that we are right to be standing up for our rights.  I really appreciate it.

*****************************************

A little update on Kieran’s ear infection situation.  He’s still infected. The end.

Ok, so there’s a little more to it than that.  But the ear infection that wouldn’t die still goes on and on.  We went to the audiologist for a hearing evaluation.  Result:  While he isn’t deaf, he’d probably be hearing (and speaking) better if he didn’t feel like his ears were full of cotton balls.  He needs to see an ENT (Ear/Nose/Throat)  and a speech pathologist.  He’ll likely need surgery to have tubes put in his ears.

The ENT is the more important of the two appointments.   It will probably take months to get in to see the specialist.  Until then my son will just have to get by with his grunts and primitive labels of “eesh” and “baw” which basically sums up his entire vocabulary.

The more pressing problem is the fact that he has literally had an ear infection since November.  Four rounds of different antibiotics later, there is still a pound of festering sludge in his ears that can’t clear out. Yum.  What do you think would happen if I poured a tablespoon of bleach in his ears each night before bed and “swooshed” him around a little?

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The paper shredder must ALWAYS be unplugged when not in use.

 

Why is it always a library book that bites the bullet???

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Avery got a tiny spiderman tattoo in one of her valentines from school. She was thrilled to death and begged me to put it on her as soon as she found it.  After about twelve consecutive hours of begging I give in and we go in search of a damp washcloth.

I meticulously center the tattoo and apply the wet cloth, holding it firmly in place while we wait the excruciating sixty seconds.  When I pull it off I realize that I have made the gravest of stick-on-tattoo-application errors.  I have forgotten to remove the plastic film off the front of the tattoo sheet.  Spiderman’s face is now perfectly applied to the tiny plastic sheet and not to my daughter’s arm.

I utter curses in my head, thinking this will not turn out well.  “I’m sorry honey.  Mommy forgot to take this plastic off here and now the tattoo is stuck to it.  I can’t take it off. I’m really sorry.”

Tears well up in her eyes and her chin quivers.  She looks at me bravely and says in a trembling voice “It’s ok M-m-mommy.”  She weeps quiet tears of disappointment as I hug her.  Her forgiveness is given without resentment and it fills me up in a way that many of my interactions with her can’t.  But I’ll be damned if I ever make this mistake again.  I privately berate myself for a small oversight that caused this disappointment for my sensitive girl.  I would have paid more attention to stick-on tattoos if I had known they would play such an important role in my girl’s happiness!  Damn Spiderman.

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I am so not in the blogging groove lately.  To tell the truth I am stressed waaaaay the hell out.  So much so that I feel nauseous. Our plans for after hubby’s grad are undecided and we were working on it when we got a letter from our landlord that went something like this:

Dear Tenants,

We’re sick of you asking us to fix all the things that are wrong with your living quarters.  So we’ve started advertising your suite since your lease is up tomorrow in two and a half months.  Get the hell out.

The Landlord.  

Our lease is up at the end of April. But we were hoping to get at least one more month since hubby’s grad isn’t until mid-May. But the LL is having nothing to do with it. Which means we are SCEEE-REWED!  And the stuff we are trying to decide on is kind of life-altering and trying to decide if hubby will be happy with one possibility or if we need to be exploring other options but the other options require A WHOLE DAMN LOT OF EXPLORATION before they are anything that resembles a real possibility for us. And hubby has about 3 seconds of free time every day in which to do the research on jobs.

So it seems that we may come to the end of this twelve months in London and have no house, no job and no money.  Pretty much the worst case scenario. I am so f*cking frustrated and worried and I KNOW that it will all work out but that is not making me feel better at this moment.  I just want to cry or hide or slip into a coma until this mess goes away.

Some of you have said I am dealing with the unknown well. I believe I told you some days are better than others. Today is not a good day.   If you need me, I’ll be in the fetal position, rocking and breathing into a paper bag.

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