the walls have balls
Many years ago I read a fascinating book called My House is Killing Me! and now that there are unwelcome colonies of visitors growing in my walls, I get to live it! Don't you just love new adventures?
Actually, it's more like I have been "dying" it than "living it" to be accurate in reporting. There also happen to be unwelcome colonies growing in the walls of my lungs, and I am just not a very gracious hostess at this time.
Now on my 3rd relapse of pneuomia, even the strongest antibiotics and most restrictive of medical confinements (okay, I busted out, I disobeyed) have not been able to cure me of the consumption. Oxygen! I miss thee!
And, to peeve me further yet, historically my lungs have been one of my healthiest, most reliable parts (as a medical guinea pig in a recent Cystic Fibrosis study, I regularly wowed the doctors with my 140 % of normal lung capacity tests--they couldn't explain it except to glance over my biographical information and say, "It must be all the singing. And she is tall.")!
Unfair I say...hhuff....
Alas, the BCD family will all be off (including hounds) in a few days to the fresh and healing breezes of coastal Lake Superior. While we're away, men with masks will gut and rebuild an entire bathroom plus an adjoining closet, and decon our nest of all its fungal cooties. This will take (in the loose talk of contractors), about 4-5 days, which should be just enough time for the feverish wheezing to leave my body while I lie shivering in a chilly northwoods damp of Two Harbors, clutching my copy of Ahab's Wife and my hot water bottle under of the shadow of the great Lighthouse and amid the screech of the gulls. Sipping tea. Hack, hack.
Okay, I'll be in a well-heated inn with large screen TV, maid service and high-speed internet, but the walls are log and there is a view of the barnacled harbor. Plus I have to be there with my hyperactive boy children, so do you really see me convalescing? Hmm?
Maybe I shall spot the great Moby Dick and come back with only one lung, har har. Or at least a bag of cool rocks.
Actually, it's more like I have been "dying" it than "living it" to be accurate in reporting. There also happen to be unwelcome colonies growing in the walls of my lungs, and I am just not a very gracious hostess at this time.
Now on my 3rd relapse of pneuomia, even the strongest antibiotics and most restrictive of medical confinements (okay, I busted out, I disobeyed) have not been able to cure me of the consumption. Oxygen! I miss thee!
And, to peeve me further yet, historically my lungs have been one of my healthiest, most reliable parts (as a medical guinea pig in a recent Cystic Fibrosis study, I regularly wowed the doctors with my 140 % of normal lung capacity tests--they couldn't explain it except to glance over my biographical information and say, "It must be all the singing. And she is tall.")!
Unfair I say...hhuff....
Alas, the BCD family will all be off (including hounds) in a few days to the fresh and healing breezes of coastal Lake Superior. While we're away, men with masks will gut and rebuild an entire bathroom plus an adjoining closet, and decon our nest of all its fungal cooties. This will take (in the loose talk of contractors), about 4-5 days, which should be just enough time for the feverish wheezing to leave my body while I lie shivering in a chilly northwoods damp of Two Harbors, clutching my copy of Ahab's Wife and my hot water bottle under of the shadow of the great Lighthouse and amid the screech of the gulls. Sipping tea. Hack, hack.
Okay, I'll be in a well-heated inn with large screen TV, maid service and high-speed internet, but the walls are log and there is a view of the barnacled harbor. Plus I have to be there with my hyperactive boy children, so do you really see me convalescing? Hmm?
Maybe I shall spot the great Moby Dick and come back with only one lung, har har. Or at least a bag of cool rocks.
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