Yesterday afternoon at pre-school, Victoria burst into flames. Which seemed odd. Today she and her twin are home, heating the TV room with their fevers and asking for hot chocolate with big marshmallows, hold the hot chocolate if you please. The impact of two sick three-year-olds to my day hasn't been that major and I've actually been able to accomplish much that I had intended today, if only you replace "work on the basement" with "self-medicate."
Still, the basement is coming along quite well, despite the fact for almost two months this house hasn't seen 48 consecutive hours without a thermometer going in someone's orifice and coming out with three digits of fun. The walls are up and the floor is stained, and all that is left is for me fill the spaces with hundreds of dollars of stylishly crappy furniture from Ikea, transforming this:
I took about 30 pictures of the acid-stained floor because 1) I am fairly proud of it and 2) soon I'll never see it again:
You can also see, right next to the imaginary bookshelf, the cat door leading to the furnace room, which is where we keep the litter boxes. It is also, coincidentally, the only room in the house the furnace effectively heats, effusing the entire basement with the gentle hint of warm poop like some kind of Glade plug-in from Hell.
Of course, we'd get the same effect if we heated behind the upstairs couch.