Being Quarantined Makes Me Write A lot. Mainly About Being Quarantined. So Basically I'm Just Looking For Sympathy.

Day 4 of Quarantine:

The boy still has fever. The boy "needs" crap, like foot rubs, leg rubs, blanket application, blanket removal, apple juice, more apple juice, apple juice that's colder, apple juice with less ice, apple juice with more ice, hugs, answers to every question that anyone has ever asked in the history of questions, explanations as to why we can't get married, explanations as to why we can't get married even if daddy dies, explanations as to why people get married in the first place, explanations as to why all gay men move to Mexico (this after seeing 2 episodes of House Hunters in a row that had gay men moving to Mexico), explanation as to why mommy's gay friends don't live in Mexico, explanations as to why mommy's dad lives in Mexico if he's not gay.

Things like that.

I am dying, people. I haven't left the house in 3 days. If it wasn't for the fact that Steve and I don't love him (his words), it would be four days. But when you don't love your son, like we don't, you get a babysitter last Saturday night and go to dinner and The Improv to see Jo Koy, with friends, even when your son has a fever.

Day 4 Realization:

Thank goodness I don't love my son and I totally ditched him on Saturday night to go out, because that time away is all that is saving me from going postal right now.

Since The Hub is out of town AGAIN, I am dealing with this all alone. We have had 4 days together, my offspring and I, and it feels like 100. Although he is claiming I don't love him, I obviously do. If I didn't love him I would have driven him to a strange neighborhood in the middle of the night when he was drugged into a fever-medicated coma-like sleep, pushed him out of the car in some dark alley, and come back home to a germ-free and whine-free environment. Well, not entirely whine-free, because I whine a lot, but child whine-free. And not "wine" free with no "h" either, because wine with no h is really helping to keep me sane right now.

And I know that I'm not supposed to talk about The Hub being out of town. And I never usually mention it until he is back. But at this point I don't care. It's integral to the story of my mental demise. Plus, as I know I've mentioned before, if someone is gonna go breaking into our house to get all murdery on us, it's gonna be me who does the fighting because The Hub would not wake up. At all. Even when the police were here doing the CSI stuff in the aftermath, he would still be asleep. And if by some miracle he did wake up? He sleeps in the nude, you guys, And I'm about 99% sure that nobody can kick murderer ass while nude. There's just a normal lack of confidence in a nude person (except for porn stars and strippers) that doesn't really contribute to fantastic ass-kicking skillz. So in the murder scheme of things does it matter if he isn't here? Nope. Plus, at this point I would almost welcome a murderer. I need the company. As long as he/she was willing to have a drink and a little conversation first, they can get all murdery on me all they want. Add some excitement to my quarantined life. Put me out of my misery. Whatever. Just so long as they spare the boy. See, I do love him.

I'm almost convinced that someone who wants to see me dead has infected Ethan with something and programmed him to give it to me. Kinda like The Terminator. He is chasing me around, coughing on me, asking for hugs, touching everything with booger hands, all in the hopes of offing me.

I'm actually not sure who is going crazier. Me or the cat. Ethan has made it his mission to spend every waking moment that he's not spending annoying me, on annoying the cat. She is living in fear and has developed a new facial expression that is a mixture of terrification (just totally invented that word), loathing, and bug-eyed freaked-the-hell-out-edness. She totally deserves it though. And as long as she is taking his attention from me, it's all good.

Thankfully...oh so thankfully, I have some wonderful friends. One gave me coffee when I was totally out this morning, therefore saving Ethan's life (thank you, Lisa Tagliarino). One got meds and various grocery store items for me yeaterday AND again today (thank you, Cathy Hunter). And one brought me a wonderful surprise yesterday (thanks, Nancie Herring. My little tiny pocket friend):

This is a Leprechaun Mustache, you guys. Wearing it helps me look super-serious and introspective as I contemplate all the ways I can get back at Ethan for all this illness crap after he is feeling better.  And just to let you all know how fried my brain is from quarantine, headache, earache, and sick kid nursing and servanting: when I was on the phone with Steve last night and was trying to tell him what Nancie brought me, I said "A green mustache! You know, for those little guys from that holiday with all the little green guys and shamrocks and stuff." Yep. I'm that smart. And BTW I have no make-up on in this photo, cuz only a jackhole puts on make-up whilst under quarantine. So don't get all judgey about my ugliness. Thanks.

And I've had many more people call and email me with support. Like I'm at death's door or something. Even readers that I don't actually know. Obviously you guys all know me and know how much I (a) overreact to everything, and (b) like attention. So thank you to all of my awesome friends and readers. Your support in my time of stress and sorrow is much appreciated. And in case the boy never gets better, and I come down with a deadly version of whatever is ailing him, and the CDC puts our entire house inside one of those big plastic bubbles like they did to Elliott's house on E.T., I just want you all to know I love you. And you'd better find a way to cut a hole in the bubble and either bust me out or at the very least, give me some margarita fixins.