My pants are all better

My computer is finally back from the doctor and is as good as new. Allegedly. I tend to be more than a little skeptical about fidgeting with techno gadgets. I don't believe that anyone really knows how to "fix" any of these things and I'm pretty sure the term "up grade" is geek code for "Keep my card handy lady, you'll be paying me to fix whatever problems I've just caused with your ________ (fill in the blank with whatever electronic devise you've made yourself dependent upon) within a fortnight." (ps - I love the word fortnight. It makes me think of that movie "So I Married an Axe Murderer" where the Mike Meyers Scottish dad character talks about craving Kentucky Fried Chicken. I'm laughing a little right now actually). All I know is that before my husband (I'm totally throwing him under the bus here) called in repair man Moses (that was his real name) to "do some maintenance" my computer before the warranty ran out, I was happily blogging and mapquesting and googling. Post computer- fixer- guy/techno prophet? Broken computer and me, totally unable to do the whole list of cyber verbs. Annoying.

My relationship with computers and all of their electronic cohorts, I've decided, is something like that between ancient native peoples and volcanoes. Always living in the shadow of something that could blow up in your face at any moment (metaphorically or literally) ending life as you know it, (again metaphorically or literally, have you ever seen "War Games" - hello) but strangely unable to abandon it. Clearly I need to come up with some kind of awesome ceremonial ritual to appease the computer gods and head off any more complications. I'm not sure what this will look like exactly, but I'm pretty sure it will involve lots of fluorescent body paint, garlic and a life size picture of Al Gore. Awesome.

Like my computer, my child -Tweet, has also been to the doctor. Today actually. Unlike my computer, we failed to purchase the extended warranty for Tweet which means that when he gets sick, no one shows up at my house in pants that expose a relatively large section of their bum and poke at him with a screw driver swapping out all of his diseased parts. Also, I have to pay someone to fix him. This places me in an interesting dilemma as a mom. The nurturing, self-sacrificing side of me wants to be told that there is nothing wrong with my baby that a little homemade chicken soup and plenty of TV watching won't fix (aka - "he has a virus, there's nothing we can do about it"). Unfortunately for "the good mom", her voice doesn't even come close to drowning out the other part of me that thinks "if this kid isn't sick with something that needs at least one test and some serious medication, I'm taking the $15 copay out of his bank when we get home." I'm sorry, but it's pretty frustrating when you've been up taking temperatures and pushing Tylenol all night to a kid that feels like he's on the verge of spontaneous combustion and then when you finally get him to the doctor's office he doesn't have the decency to muster up even a little fever. What I learned today is that the fever can leave, but the Strep Throat stays... also, you shouldn't cheer when you find out that your 3 year old really did need to come to the stupid appointment after all. It probably sends the wrong message.

So... let the amoxicillin and blogging begin. (Sounds like the beginning words from an ultra modern alphabet book). Hopefully we can contain and destroy the bugs we have, and avoid any further infections, break downs, crashes, or trips to the doctor... both techno and human.