I am surviving the Black Death and will hopefully be around tomorrow to die another day; our little town is experiencing a Dustin Hoffman-style outbreak, and no one is safe. Lately Caleb and I are going back and forth trying to out-sick each other and the kids have done nothing but ping off the walls at the speed of sound. We’re tired, we’re overwhelmed, and although I can think of a million reasons to scream cuss words into my germ-caked pillow, I can think of a million more reasons to be pleasant and thankful.
•For friends who come to the rescue, with work gloves and can-do ‘tudes:
This picture shows the view from a clean window into a clean front yard–courtesy of our church homegroup. While I was barfing up my lungs Sunday evening, they braved the freezing temps and got that job done, AND DONE RIGHT. The next day, I did not feel the 1.21 jigawatts of stress that normally settle in upon arrival at the farmhouse. Their hard work, combined with all the trimming and fixing and organizational skills of some more friends, has lifted a colossal weight off of Caleb’s shoulders. Who’s better than you, Oklahoma squad?
Our house has been shown. Here’s when my radical obsession with “House Hunters” comes full circle: I keep imagining imaginary buyers walking on the beach to Suzanne Wong’s narration: “…Or will they choose house #3, the charming golf-course brick house with the driveway from hell?”
And here are the buyers:
Wife: “I LOVE house #3.”
Husband: “I’m just not sure about those carpets…”
Wife: “But you can golf!”
Husband: “I do love to golf.”
Wife: “Wait. What are we even doing in Oklahoma? Can you not golf in Florida?”
Husband: “Yeah…why are we living where the air hurts our face?”
Wife: “The wind in this state in February? Literally the worst.”
Husband: “I hate all the houses because they’re all 30 degrees on the outside.”
Wife: “This blows.”
Husband: “Know what doesn’t blow? Fresh seafood.”
Wife: “So are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Husband: “I think so!”
Wife, Husband (in unison): “We choose…DISNEYWORLD!”
Well it’s super-late–like, almost 9:00–and I’m really counting on 10 solid hours of sporadic, interrupted slumber to make me feel 4% better by tomorrow.