Life at Chez Smiffy

It seems like I should have something profound to say. But I don't.


I think it may be the fever. Fever always makes my thinking strange for a couple of days -- things seem like they should be important.

Jack was very ill on Thursday with a fever and a digestive upset. He kept us up all night Wednesday vomiting every 10 minutes, poor kid. Just as he was recovering on Friday morning, Rod came down with a very high fever and a headache. Just as Rod was starting to recover on Saturday (he was still not looking great), I came down with it.

The catch is, I had set this weekend aside to paint the bedroom. This was our third try. I actually bought the paint almost a year ago. Every time we set time aside for this job, one or another of us had been sick. I gave up and called in professional help. Bob is fast! I had set aside four days because that's how long these projects tend to take Rod and I. Bob was done in four hours, even with our ineffectual "help". I realized as I was cutting in the corners that I wasn't feeling so well, and by the time we were done, I was so sick I could barely stay upright. The guys ate lunch, and I crawled into bed where I alternated between the complete inability to get warm and feeling like I was going to set the sheets ablaze.

Anyway, I think the fever has broken, and I know that the bedroom looks amazing. Today, within the limits of the available strength, we'll put the bedroom back together.

Maybe later today I can be coherent.