I woke up feeling queasy and was convinced I was coming down with the stomach flu. I’ve gotten three e-mails in the past two days saying “sorry we saw you yesterday! Me/my kid/everyone has the stomach flu!”
I might have stomach flu on the brain.
I cancelled all my morning plans, because the last thing I wanted to do was go on a huge walk when I wasn’t sure if my stomach could be trusted. I also wanted to avoid giving nasty germs to anyone, especially my best friend.
I took stock of the bathrooms and determined they were not clean enough to sleep in. I was 100% convinced that I’d be spending most of the day and/or night on the bathroom floor, so I made it my mission to get them as clean as possible before the inevitable happened.
While I was at it, I decided I should change Erik’s sheets, finish off all the laundry I could get to before the eruption, and clean out the kitchen.
I had a harrowing 15 minutes around 10 am when I was sure the end was nigh, then . . . nothing. I’ve felt fine all day.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m VERY VERY grateful it was all my imagination. It’s kind of funny that the day I took a “sick day” from my normal activities is the one day I managed to get a ton of housework done. Normally I wouldn’t do all three tasks in one day, but I kept thinking “just one more thing, just one more thing”. I have a system for cleaning–nothing is ever clean on the same day, but everything does get cleaned at least once a week.
Not that you’d know I spent all day working my ass off by the look of my house. The living room and dining room are complete disasters. We painted the upper half of the dining room yesterday, so we pulled down cabinets, curtains, wall files, etc. We are letting the paint cure another day before we start messing around with it.
The previous owners loved their chair railing and wainscoting shadow boxes. Before we can re-install the shoe cabinet, I need to stand and paint the lower portion of that wall with all it’s 10000000 pieces of trim. Hopefully I will get the dining room put together before 2014. All this clutter is driving me crazy. If I knew where the screws were, I’d put the wall files back up right this very second. It wouldn’t cut down on much clutter, but it would be something.
I did learn that if I want to make a super awesome play space for Elsa I don’t really need much room. I can just buy a big cabinet, plunk it on the floor without doors and she will happily play for hours in her “house.” I took a picture, but she was buck naked so I won’t be sharing it on the interwebz. Her refusal to wear clothing is the main reason you don’t get any pictures of her these days.
You want to know what she looks like? Just pretend this picture wasn’t taken in the ’70s:
That could seriously be a picture of her. It is uncanny.
Oh, and who could forget this picture. It’s not the picture that’s significant, it’s the event:
This is the birth of an intense fish phobia. I clearly remember my dad was telling me that fish were eating my toes. I could feel the seaweed (is it seaweed when its in a river?) grabbing at my feet and believed it was fish trying to eat me. The older I get, the stronger the phobia grows. Just the thought of going to an aquarium gives me a slight panic attack (even though I went to one this summer! I enjoyed the sea mammals, but the indoor area with the actual fish aquariums was a nightmare. I was huddled against the wall trying to breathe.)
You never know how you are going to damage your kids. Though one would think that if your kid is screaming bloody murder and trying to crawl up your back you might quit with the teasing. My dad was never one to quit with the teasing.
Ok, time to go read some more Magic Tree House. Ugh. I thought maybe I was crazy for letting this whole Morgan Le Faye being a friendly enchantress who makes a tree house (A TREE HOUSE FOR GOD’S SAKE!) bother me. Maybe I was confusing her with someone else. I did research, and nope. It was just as I suspected. She’s Arthur’s nemesis in most tales of Camelot, and an very powerful sorceress. She would not be fooling around with a frick frackin’ treehouse.
I know. I know. It doesn’t matter.
BUT IT MAKES NO SENSE.
I like the Stink books a lot better, about Judy Moody’s little brother. Too bad there are only 7 of them.