Crazy Stable

 My gut, that is...along with my sinuses, my ears, and everything else that isn't responding to an antibiotic after laying me low for the first 2 weeks of 2008. If I were a house, I would have radon and toxic mold, and probably some flaking asbestos in the bargain.

This fortnight of intermittent yuckiness and lethargy has been praticularly frustrating because of my resolution to "keep grinding" (as the estimable Mr. Pimp C would've wanted--see below), by forging ahead and repainting the long-delayed downstairs hallway, then moving on to Child's room. Delusionally, I pictured this all happening in January. Since New Year's Eve, we have purchased: Sudafed (after signing for it to permit our arrest if we turn it into crystal meth in our trailer out back), amoxicillin, Mucinex (such a charmingly named product, and totally useless), ibuprofen, lots of soup, and 247 boxes of tissues. We have not  bought rollers or even a bucket of primer, and my current stamina level would have me retiring for a nap after stirring the stuff. As it is, Spouse always has to paint the ceilings; I have an embarrassing, invisible, and mysterious condition called Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, which causes me to keel over and puke if I work overhead or perform other triggering maneuvers. (Clogged ears can make this worse--oh, goody.)

(By the way, I am aware that all bloggers should have Voltaire's quote--"The secret of being a bore is to tell everything"--tattoo'd on the back of their mouse-manipulating hand, but if just one other soul gets the validation of discovering that BPPV is real and not just a swooning character defect, I will Not Have Blogged in Vain.) 

Anyway, do fellow housebloggers agree that being sick in a half-renovated house adds a certain je ne sais quoi (Voltaire liked that one, too) to the whole winter-viral experience?  I have observed these distinct Phases of Renovator Sickness, in descending order of severity:

Phase IV. "Thank God...have...working...toilet.  Must...reach...it."

Phase III. "Projects out there somewhere. Somewhere beyond this bed, but within this house. Eh--time for soup now, house can rot."

Phase II. "Oh, look, all the supplies for the project still sitting there. Um...nah. Gotta microwave some soup."

Phase I. "Maybe I will have a sandwich instead of soup. Hmph, where is the Phillips-head screwdriver? I could just, you know, take the hardware off."

I'm still stuck in Phase II, but sometimes something comes up to put it all in perspective and bust you back to Phase I--like learning that Bestfriend is having emergency surgery. Suddenly the primer, and the mucus, and everything else doesn't matter a damn. She's doing okay so far, but prayers are appreciated; as for me, I'm going to need to make and deliver some serious soup.