Plenty of Room

All I could hear was Hubby's side of the conversation, an occasional question, followed by uh-huh  and a splattering of other information.   Hard to tell exactly what he was talking about or who he was talking to for that matter.   Of course my fever and congestion had me so foggy that he could have been singing Lady Gaga and I wouldn't have recognized it.

Of course you can stay here; there's plenty of room , followed by a click of the receiver. That's when I perked up, propping myself up from the couch enough to ask him who he had been speaking with.   Not that it really mattered at that point because apparently we were about to have company stay with us.   If I ™d had any strength at all or if my senses hadn't been dimmed by the heavy antibiotics, I ™m sure I would have shrieked at him about the fact that this was probably not a great time for company.

After all, I hadn't seen the outside world in a week, much less had a shower.   Our house, which was usually clean enough for a surprise visit, had the stale smell of take-out containers and was decorated with used tissues, cough lozenge wrappers and assorted blankets and pillows strewn about.   The dog hair was piling up all over the place, making our carpet a mélange of texture and color.   All I could do was lay back on the couch and hope that the dishes in the sink would miraculously put themselves into the dishwasher.

Seriously, sweetie, is it really a good idea for others to be in the same house with me?    I could see he felt bad for even offering.   Hubby had been sick too, although he managed to recover quickly.   My illness was stuck to me, like gum to the bottom of a shoe.

Nothing to do at that point but accept the fact that we would have guests.   Lovely guests too, it's just that I was in no shape to host, seeing as I was barely able to make it from the bedroom to the couch.   So I made it my goal to feel better by the time they arrived.

That time is now, and unfortunately I ™m not much better.   I did introduce myself to the shower, which was great, but my head is still foggy and I can't seem to go anywhere without some sort of liquid to soothe my throat.   Hubby has helped rid the kitchen of the piles of take-out containers and showed the dishes how to get into the dishwasher.   Yet the dog hair remains, left for me to handle while Hubby is out.

I realize the company will be here soon and the dog hair has to go.   But where does it have to go, I ask myself?     Still shrouded by the head fog, I wander the house trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with the dog hair.   Ah-ha! The vacuum cleaner.   I see the vacuum; even have both hands on the vacuum.   Yet somehow it's become freakishly heavy and I ™m unable to move it out of the closet.

Wow, why is vacuuming so hard? I must be weak from the flu.   I try to push the vacuum back and forth, but the hair just seems to stay put.   Oh, it would help if it was plugged in.   Trying again, I start to make head-way.   After just a few back and forths and sweating profusely from the fever, I take a break.   Next thing I know the dog is waking me with her kisses, urging me to get up before the company arrives. All I want to do is lay on the carpet. When did our carpet become so comfortable?

Ding dong!   Oh no; are they here already?   Where's Hubby?   The dog's bark tells me it's not our guests, just our neighbor asking something about the yard, or the trees, or the fence, or something.   I lay back down to rest on the carpet.

Sigh.   I hate being sick.   Just hope I ™m better before the doorbell rings again.

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