There's a Serial Killer in my House

I have a serial killer in my house. Oh sure, she hasn't hacked us to pieces yet, but it's only a matter of time.

See, I met her on the internet. And, as we all know, everybody online as an internet axe murderer. It's been shown countless times on news stations: If you meet somebody from the world wide web, they will inevitably stab you through the eyeball, as they laughing maniacally. 

I must have a death wish or I wouldn't have invited this demoness of the dark to Ottawa for a week. I would have continued our friendship through email, Facebook and other safe venues. I would have reminded myself that just because I've known her - or whatever persona she projects online to mask her evil - for about half my life, it's not safe to have her in my home, because she will eventually start keeping my body parts in my own fridge (talk about adding insult to injury).

Look, if CNN tells me I should worry, I obviously should. I'm a fool for ignoring their bright red warnings of the murder du jour flashing across my screen. Don't I know to look for the signs? They're so obvious:

1. She's from the internet. As was stated above, everyone from the internet (except me and people I know in real life) is aching to go on a murder spree.

2. She used to play online fantasy RPG games. She was obviously escaping into a world where murder was okay. If you're a Level 18 thief holding a knife with +2 backstabbing capabilities, think of the virtual guts you can spill. The psycho chick was undoubtedly getting off on the thrill. And aren't those Dungeons and Dragons people all  devil worshippers anyway?  I mean, except me.

3. She's met some mutual friends in person, but those people are also from the internets, so they're probably all in on this together, the murderous bastards they are. 

4. She's an IT professional. You know what those people are like. Fucking creepy is what. She probably perfects her terrifying sociopathic grin in the light of her work monitor, cackling as she codes in languages only the too-smart-to-be-stable understand. 

5. Her current hobby is being a reenactor. You know, those people who dress up in fake old clothes and run around pretending to kill the enemy for the delight of onlookers? Now, if you're going to have a hankering for butchery, what better way to get your jollies? There are swords, muskets, canons and other weapons of destruction at your fingertips, and you could probably get away with bringing them with you just about anywhere under the guise of reenacting. Nobody would even blink; it's genius! But my house psycho needs just a little more to get off. She plays a surgeon, with actual 18th century surgical tools.  My family is so done for. 

6. We took Spawnling to Build-A-Bear yesterday and she got him a stuffed animal because he didn't get to go camping with his brothers and dad this week. She's obviously trying to get me to let my guard down enough that she can slice my scalp off; Easier to do right now since a good portion of the Maven family is an hour away in a tent. Vulnerability is something serial killers feed on.

7. She met my mom and sister last night. This is a brilliant way of fooling those closest to me. That way, when my body is discovered in a quarry, my family will throw the popo off her trail by saying things like "It couldn't have been the houseguest. Not her. She was so nice!"

8. Have I mentioned she has an internet presence? 

Anyway, the whole thing is surely a big mistake. I don't even know if my will is up to date, and we certainly don't have a lot of life insurance on me. I probably should have taken care of my affairs before having knife-crazed 'netter into our home. Hindsight is always 20/20. Ironically, this is also the name of the program that a picture of my bloated corpse will show up on. 

Before I get axed - and not in the figurative, recessional way - I should update you on Spawnling. He has an ear infection which is now being treated with antibiotics. So not quite "just a fever" but definitely not something scary. Phew! Thanks for all the well wishes.

Anyone want to guest post on my blog while I'm getting strangled? 

Just a fever (I think)

Thursday night, Spawnling developed a fever. We were in the pool for about three hours with only minimal sunscreen application, so I assumed heat exhaustion and felt tremendously guilty for not being more vigilant.

Over 48 hours later, we're pretty sure it's not heat exhaustion. He still has a high fever, but absolutely no other symptoms. For the first day or so, it wasn't responding well to medication, but we seem to have it mostly under control now if we alternate between Tylenol and Advil. Back and forth, back and forth, like an adulterer on Jerry Springer.

Here's the thing: Spawnling got very sick last year. His first and only persistent symptom? A high fever that responded poorly to medication.  And even though my brain knows that my littlest gremlin is not having a second bout of scary illness, my heart has crawled up into my throat and won't leave until the fever does.

If I'm not mistaken, this is Spawn's first fever since he was blindsided by Kawasaki Disease in August of last year. If he has had others, I don't remember them, so they must have been fairly mild and accompanied by other symptoms that would make me think "Oh, it's just a little virus. Nothing to worry about."

And all I've done for the last three days is sit and watch him, feel his forehead, ask if anything hurts, give him medicine, follow him around, and make sure his lips aren't cracking and his hands aren't peeling and his eyes aren't bloodshot.

No, I beg you: Please try to contain all your envy of my latest hobby. I'm sure you have awesome stuff going on in your life, too.

I admit to being a total spaz. I admit that I'm overreacting and dwelling on the past too much. I don't like it and would do just about anything not to be sitting here fretting about my child's fever which is probably nothing more than a fever. But instead, I ran him into the local children's hospital at six this morning because his temperature was nearly 104f and not coming down fast enough with Advil.

I was running on three hours of sleep after going out with some of my awesome peeps last night for patio drinks (I, of course, got a little risky with not one, but two glasses of Diet Pepsi). Geekster pretty much forced me out when I tentatively asked if he'd mind holding down the fort. He could probably see my crazy starting to bubble up to the surface and figured he'd rather I not implode. I'm glad I went, but I did worry an awful lot while I was out despite the excellent company.  I fell asleep sometime after 2:30 and woke up at 6 when Geekster brought a very hot three-year-old into our bed. So, off to CHEO we went, Spawnling and I, with only a brief stop at a drive-thru for some essential - like, seriously essential and not pretend essential like usual - caffeine.

Diagnosis? Well, there is none, of course. He either has a virus (surprise!) or a reaction to some insect bites. Either way, there's not a whole lot anyone can do other than wait it out.

Oh, and maybe I could chill the fuck out a little in the meantime, too.

I wasn't like this before. Really, I wasn't. I left my paranoid new mother phase in a medical waiting room several years ago and never went back to claim her. I like not flying into a panic at the first touch of a hot forehead. I like scoffing at a sneeze, pshaw-ing a cough, shrugging off a runny nose. I was getting really good at saying "Sure, bad, scary, random things have happened to other kids I know and that's awful. But those are other kids, not my kids. I am so great at not making things all about me!"

Until, you know, it was my kid.

And when it was your kid, your perspective changes. I get that now. I wish I didn't. I wish I could ignorantly roll my eyes at me right now and tell me I'm being too emotional.

My goal over the next little while is to try and make a fever just a fever again. Meaning that I don't let my thoughts run away with me to the dark alley of what-ifs to perform dirty deeds with assumption, the lusty john that he is. I'm going to try and look at a sickly Spawnling as normal and not serious and not dangerous.

Logically, I know that everything will very likely be okay. When we do get his temperature under control, he acts completely normal. He has energy, he's chatty, he plays games, he has attitude - all good signs that this is mild, whatever it is. I loathe my inner panic button for not just letting me ride on logic. I never bought tickets to the emotional roller coaster and I do not wish to keep going around the track. Feeling suck. I think sociopaths are on to something. Is there an "off" switch somewhere?

In two days, if Spawnling's fever is not gone, I need to take him back to the hospital for testing. If any other symptoms of infection crop up before then, I need to bring him back sooner. But, of course, he will get better. The fever will break, and I will breathe a sigh of relief that it was, truly, just a fever this time.

Breathe, Maven. Just breathe. Focus on the good stuff, like how your friend is coming tomorrow from the US and you can try and pump her as full of Canadian misconceptions as humanly possible over the next six days. And how your older two are going camping with their dad and you'll only have the sickly Spawn to deal with, who will very likely have made a full recovery by then.

Just breathe. And quit whining. And go have another coffee, because that two hour nap you had earlier today isn't doing much for your mental state, obviously. You freaking basket case, you.

Since this post wasn't terribly funny (sorry, it's kind of hard to make anxiety over your child's health a ha-ha moment), I'll post a link to something I wrote last year about hospital wall art. I read it again recently and it made me laugh.

Take that back! I'm not lame, ok? I'm just that awesome.

The Kool-Aid Jammers Fiasco and Other Lowlights of the Week

What a week! I'm as exhausted as an extra in a Tae-Bo DVD. But I want to blog and I know that is so not going to happen tomorrow. We have a birthday party and I have to finish up a contract for that money stuff we spend way too much of.

The nice thing about night blogging is that I don't really think about what I'm writing. It just flows... Sometimes like a roaring river, sometimes like a sticky sewer line. Either way, I don't have to destroy any brain cells in the process. They're in short supply these days.

I know the highlight of the week was most definitely BOLO night, (here's a pic of me blogging out loud! Thanks jhscrapmom!) but the lowlight has a fair number of contenders. Let's take a look at the contestants, shall we?

Well, the van caught on fire and could have killed Spawnling and me. That was a double dose of unpleasantries right there. It doesn't get much lower than that... Or does it?

Oh, it does. All my children are home. Did that register? ALL MY CHILDREN ARE HOME. They are not at school. They are not in somebody else's care. They are in my home, fighting. They fight so much that if Super Nanny was here she would be rocking back and forth in a corner at the end of the day, sobbing and considering a career shift into something soothing, like pottery.

Also, all my children are... Wait. I said that already. Well, screw it. It deserves at least two paragraphs points. This is serious stuff right here, yo.

Not only are they fighting, but they're ganging up on me and bringing their friends along for the fun. On the way home from a perfectly lovely morning - a morning that I put off working and going to the passport office for so my kids could frolic at a splash park and play with their buddies - I had four children giggling and yelling "WE WANT SOMETHING! WE WANT SOMETHING! WE WANT SOMETHING!" all the way through the drive-thru. I couldn't hear a word the magic Tim Hortons speaker was asking me. I winged it and repeated the order twice, said "yes" a few times and "thank you" once. I have absolutely no idea how she even heard me or got the order correctly with all that racket in the background, but she's obviously a seasoned pro at handling unruly minivan mobs. And no, my friend Tracey and I did not get anything for the hollering horned ones in the backseat. We've been around the park a few times by now. I pulled my usual stunt of turning on Mr. Radio and turning him up just enough to drown out most of the protesting. It mostly worked until Spawnling threw a fit because he remembered I promised he could sit in the far back on the way home and was furious that I had completely forgotten. Never mind that he also forgot. Naturally, it's my fault. Sadly, the music doesn't go high enough to drown out three-year-old wailing.

Speaking of Spawnling, another fun time we had was yesterday, when I mistakenly allowed him to have not one, but two Kool-Aid Jammers. Or, as I like to call them, Food Dye in a Bag. I never buy the junk, but Gutsy begged and he was so good when we were out getting my passport photo. I temporarily lifted the ban on those evil things and allowed them into the house. Well, if I ever had any suspicions that my preschooler reacts poorly to artificial food colouring, they were confirmed yesterday afternoon. Once the Sugary Claws of Satan dug themselves into Spawnling, not even an exorcism would have helped. The boy was running in circles, screeching, flailing his arms and whacking anyone who got in the way. My friend Robyn had come over with her children and likely regretted it the minute she set foot in the kitchen. I'd like to say Spawnling took great pleasure in tormenting her three-year-old daughter, but that wouldn't be fair. I don't think he had any clue what he was doing or how to control it. Robyn and I spent a good hour waiting for his head to start spinning. Needless to say, Kool-Aid Jammers are now completely banned from Casa Maven until further notice.

(Incidentally, Maven, when you decide to remove food dye from your preschooler's diet for a few weeks, do not let your seven-year-old buy one of those fake fruit rolls and eat it in front of him. Bribing Spawnling with popcorn, chips, and anything else with a natural hue to it becomes an impossibility. Then, especially after a long day of van tantrums, you'll probably cave and give him a very small piece, which will be just enough to see him go all Mr. Hyde in a busy mall on Friday evening. However, I suppose you don't need brains if you have all that beauty, right Maven? You twit.)

Finally, nestled snuggly between the Van Wailin' concert and boarding the Hyperactivity Express at Carlingwood Mall was my trip to the passport office. See, I've never had a passport. When you become a mom at 20 and choose to live on one income so you can be a stay-at-home-mom and eat bonbons all day, there is truly no need for passports until the USA - the only place you can feasibly afford to visit from time to time - makes travel impossible without one. Since I'm going for an overnight to Syracuse, NY in a few weeks, I decided I should probably get on the whole passport thing. The problem is, I'm a bit of a spaz in government offices. My anxiety levels shoot up as I wonder if I filled my forms out correctly; if they'll accept my tattered birth certificate that's seen a lot of abuse since it was issued in '93; or if they'll call my guarantor and ask impossible questions to prove my identity, like what I take on a baked potato.

The office was fairly quiet and the whole process took less than 30 minutes, but in that time I envisioned everything from them revoking my ID to giving me a full cavity search (and not the cute guy behind counter #5, but Hilda the snaggle-toothed shaman behind #8). And the more I thought about how nervous I was, the more I wondered just how nervous I looked, which made me even more nervous, and ... Well, you get the idea. In the end, my orifices were left unsullied and the only thing they did was tell me I need a new birth certificate for the next time I apply for any government documentation. I should get my passport within two weeks.

Yep, it's been a very interesting week. Let's hope the next one is far less interesting. On the plus side, if I ever want to make some quick cash I now know all it will take is a pit, a case of Kool-Aid and a couple of thirsty toddlers. Let's get ready to rumble!

My entrepreneurialship knows no bounds.

I'm a loser baby, so why don't you hear me?

Last night was the 2nd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa, or BOLO for short. It was put together by the lovely and talented Lynn of Turtlehead. She had asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to read at this year's event. I had never been to BOLO before, but it didn't scare me. I mean, I've done public speaking in front of much bigger audiences. Besides, I'm The freaking Maven. What's there to be scared of?

In my mind, I was picturing a quiet evening with a handful of pasty-skinned, blurry-eyed people looking over their laptops at each other. When my turn came, I would simply stand up, read a post, get a few golf claps and sit my sizeable ass back down. The end.

I had so many misconceptions about BOLO and Ottawa bloggers in general that I feel the need to confess what I've learned in a post. So here is the point format version in all its embarrassing glory:

1. First of all, BOLO is not some teeny tiny event that takes place around a table. This is a fairly large gathering of local bloggers. There were many tables, and all of them were full. And what was at the very back of the pub? Was that a... a stage? A fucking stage?! With a microphone and speakers and, and... Oh my wordsmith. I had to get up a stage. I don't believe I got that memo or I would have taken off from the blogosphere at a dead run, leaving several half-finished posts in my wake.

2. There are a lot of really gorgeous bloggers. I don't know what I was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't a large gathering of hotties, that's for sure. How on earth are people who sit in front of computer screens and regularly molest the social networking sites so damn beautiful? Apparently, I can no longer use my geeky hobbies as an excuse for cellulite-laden thighs. Damn you all.

3. I'm not nearly as confident as I thought I was. Once I realized I was firmly out of my element, I let the incredible Nat flutter around like the social butterfly she is and sat nervously at our table right in front of the big scary stage, sipping my Diet Coke and unceremoniously shoving fries into my mouth. I did see some familiar faces, like Pauline and XUP, but overall, I was a total BOLO loser. Thankfully, I had a couple of fabulous friends groupies come hold my hand and stop me from crawling out the back door when no one was looking. It's a good thing I brought some of my popularity with me or I might have started crying right there, at my table, into my drink.

4. There are some incredible local bloggers out there. I was completely blown away by the talent we have right here in Ottawa. As one of the last readers, I started panicking about halfway through the night, wondering how on earth I was ever going to top everything from Facebook as an abusive relationship to the great wasp nest fiasco to some truly fried rice to some epic bra flashing. And there were more, but I would be writing all day. Seriously, how on earth could I follow those up with my mediocre writing? And, more importantly, how was I going to duck the beer bottles being thrown at me with that annoying spotlight in my face? Reading alongside these funny, witty, provocative writers was probably a big mistake. I panicked. What was I thinking? I'm not a good writer! After tonight I'll be hitchhiking down the road of spammy SEO content articles at $2 a pop. This is the day I go down in flames. Better order up another Diet Coke and get my nerve up.

5. Too much Diet Coke can lead to a mild hangover-like state in the morning. Ouch.

6. I can make up the steps of a stage and over to a microphone even when my heart is about to explode out of my chest. And, more importantly, I can read something once I'm up there. And make people laugh. And surprisingly enjoy myself very, very much. And, I believe, connect with my audience. I had no idea I had that in me, and it feels good.

7. Was I the best of the night? Absolutely not. Far from from it, actually. But I did hold my own, and I won't lie: I loved every second up on that stage (after my heart started beating again). I felt like an upper class gal in a Prada store. Oh, sure, I still felt like a lost little girl in the loser corner of the schoolyard when I sat back down (ah, memories!), but that's okay. I had my three minutes of fame and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Long live The Maven's ego!

8. Twitter is way more fun when you've met a bunch of the local people you're now following. I foresee myself getting a wee bit addicted. Somebody break out the methadone.

I had an amazing time last night. What a rush! Thanks to everyone who organized the event, who came out to speak and/or to listen, and to those who came and introduced themselves to me afterwards. You made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Or maybe that was the Diet Coke. Next time, if someone could cut me off after the first glass and steer me toward the pot of decaf, that would be great.

Mistress Chaos Likes me Too Much

Hello. My name is The Maven and I'm addicted to mayhem (hence the blog name). Or, perhaps, mistress Mayhem is addicted to me. For, try as I might to make life as smooth a ride as possible for my home of little hatchlings, we seem to be hitting a lot of potholes lately.

This year alone, we barely kept afloat with Geekster's reduced work hours and salary, my three-year-old was struck by a rare auto-immune disease, we had a dryer fire (say that three times fast - it sounds cool: dryer fire, dryer fire, dryer fire!), our middle gremlin struggled through some serious anxiety and depression, and - oh, yes - my van caught on fire.

What? I haven't told the van on fire story yet? That's because it only happened two days ago. I've been trying to write it out for the last 24 hours but my horned wonders have been too busy butting heads for me to compose more than one interrupted paragraph at a time. Still, it's story worth telling in all its chaotic glory. Come sit next to me on my pity potty and I'll tell you all about it.

Sunday night, Spawnling was running around the house wildly, launching projectiles at his older brothers and laughing evilly in the process. I don't know who helped him sneak into the food dye factory, but the kid was hyper. It was apparent he would not get to sleep without some kind of intervention. After chasing him down with a toothbrush, wrestling some pyjamas on him, and trying to read him stories in bed as he giggled and did somersaults beside me, I decided an evening drive was an absolute necessity. I do this more often than I'd like to admit. But to be honest, grabbing a coffee at the drive-thru and cruising around town for a few minutes with Coldplay to keep us company isn't such a bad deal. It's way better than being kicked by a flaying foot as I'm tucking him in.

The drive started nice enough, and Spawnling drifted off to sleep within ten minutes. I was just turning onto a highway onramp when I smelled something funky - brakes, perhaps? Meh. Must have been the dude behind me. My van just had brake work done three weeks ago. The Maven takes care of her metal baby.

I had managed to get maybe a kilometre down the road before I realized I couldn't get above 80. And that smell got worse, and I was just thinking I might want to pull over and check things out when a truck that had been behind me merges into the lane beside me and starts flagging me over, honking his horn and flashing his lights.

I pull over. He pulls in behind me, runs over and says "You need to get out of your vehicle right now. Your back wheel is on fire."

Say what, now?

I feel the shock wash over me. Sadly, when my body gets flooded with adrenaline, I get stone cold dumb. Like in a bad dream, everything feels like it's going in slow motion. Taking a sleeping Spawnling out of the van probably took seconds, but it felt like minutes. Meanwhile, all I can hear is good samaritan behind me saying "Do you have a fire extinguisher? You don't? I don't, either. Damn. Do you have water?" Not even coffee, I tell him like that's a complete irregularity. I hadn't had a chance to pick one up yet. Probably a good thing, since it would have met its untimely end being splashed on the driver's side rear wheel.

It doesn't get more tragic than that.

"Stand way, way back and call 911," says the good samaritan. "The fire is near the gas tank. You don't want to be close right now."

So I run back several feet and call 911. First, I talk to someone from the national 911 dispatch. I tell her I'm in Gatineau, but she transfers me to Ottawa emergency services, likely because my cell's area code falls on the Ottawa side. Fine. I tell them I have a car fire in Gatineau and they transfer me to - *drumroll* - Ottawa fire dispatch. Because that makes sense! Meanwhile the flames are getting bigger and the good samaritan is trying to find something in his truck to put it out with. I tell Ottawa fire what's going on and they say they'll relay the information to Gatineau. Swell. Nothing like a middleman to speed things up. In the time it took me to talk to all these people, I probably could have run across the field and adjesent Wal-Mart to the fire station behind it and just knocked on the bloody glass myself.

Watching the fire and smoke from a relatively safe distance, holding a now sobbing and terrified three-year-old, I imagined what life would be like without my van. I've never been one to get emotionally attached to material things (exclusions: our house, my grandma's antique china, and anything that has an apple on it and begins with the letter 'i'), but a very real fear hit me that the van I had lovingly handpicked all shiny and new off the lot five years ago might go up in flames at any minute.

Mistress Mayhem strikes again.

The samaritan who's name I regret never asking dug two water bottles out of the back of his truck and splashed my tire. "The fire looks like it's out," he said to me. "I really have to get going, but wait for the firetruck and do NOT drive this van. It's not safe until you've had it looked at, ok?"

No duh. Like, as if I'm getting within 50 feet of that thing until getting the mechanical "all clear." The Maven may be gorgeous, but not at the exclusion of brains. I like breathing.

He left, two more people stopped to make sure we were okay, the rest of the cars whizzed passed us at 100km/hr as Spawnling cried and I waited for a vehicular explosion. The firetruck did eventually come and confirmed that the flames were out. The biggest tragedy of this event was that I had spent most of the day makeup-less in a pool and looked like absolute ass with my sunburn, chlorine-fried hair food-stained shirt in front of three gorgeous firemen.

I've met hot firemen twice this year. The last time, about as close as I got to presentable was that I managed to throw a bra on under my shirt and sport some less-than-sexy yoga pants before leaving my smoke-filled house (yes, the kids were all outside at this point - my vanity takes a backseat to child safety, but not much else, I'm afraid). I always look like I'm stepping out of an episode of "Cops" when I meet the firemen. Just once I'd like to look a little more "meow" and a little less "woof." Just once.

I tried several times to call my husband, but he was outside and couldn't hear the phone. I managed to get him on the fifth or sixth try and he came just as the flatbed tow truck was getting there. We had it towed, we went home, we stressed over what happened and whether or not it would cost us a great deal of money to fix it. Scared little Spawnling fell asleep on the couch holding the fire chief badge hot fireman #1 gave him. I brought him into our bed and held him all night. He still remembers the last fire and is still freaked out by the earthquake we had a couple of weeks ago. He did not need this, too. Poor kiddo.

Mayhem loves me and just won't leave me alone. She runs just slightly ahead of me, upsetting the order of my life and leaving just enough mess for me to begrudgingly clean up once I get there. Thankfully, Mayhem is not an entirely cruel mistress. As far as this year goes, Spawnling is no longer sick, Geekster's full pay is being reinstated, Gutsy is in therapy and much happier, and the drier works just fine after a little cleanup.

What I've learned as the wise woman I am, is that road of life goes on despite the potholes. My van did not go up in flames and is once again drivable. As it turns out, the cause was faulty brake pads. I was ready to drop the words "lawyer" and "it's in your best interest to fix this at no expense to me" and "we could have died leaving my millions of blog readers without new posts" had we needed to, but the garage took full responsibility and had my van back to me a few hours later, free of charge. Like most of the potholes we've hit lately, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

The good news is that, after much searching of last year's posts, I've finally found something worthy of reading at this year's Blog Out Loud Ottawa. And all it took was potentially getting engulfed in flames while driving on the highway.

I need a coffee.