Coherency is fleeting

As I type thing, I'm at my in-law's, reclining in a bed that is not mine in a room that was, once upon a time, my husband's, despite its feminine makeover.  Right now, it's something between a guest room and a storage space as Chris's younger sister, Mel, has returned home after moving out for one week and is housing all of her kitchen goods here. 


We are, however, completely moved out of the cottage.  It sits empty as a new tomb, its only occupants a legion of hair balls roaming freely in the wake of the move. And here I had sworn I cleaned it enough . . . nope . . . *sigh*

Yesterday, two pleasant fellows--one a father of twelve (yep, you read that right) from Brooklyn and the other ex-military from New Jersey--packed up all of our possessions in only five hours.

This morning, three fellows came into my house and removed all 70+ boxes and furniture, save an ugly desk, a wobbly bookshelf, and a broken elliptical machine. I sat in my car because I was too exhausted to bother bouncing out of their way for four hours, watching everything roll out my front door. 

Do ignore the broken mini elliptical we left behind . .  . As far as we're concerned, he doesn't really exist any more . . .

  You see, last week Chris came down with a nasty cold.  Come this Friday, I was feeling a little sickly, but, hey, it's just a sore throat--pop some vitamin C and we'll be dandy. Saturday I didn't get out of bed. Nope. Couldn't sleep the night before, and just lay in bed that day while Chris worked on throwing out unwantables. Sunday I was almost human. Monday, I think I might have been human, just maybe, save a slight cough and a stuffy nose.  Today, I couldn't. I just couldn't.  My brain is having issues completing thoughts--I'll get out of my chair and then wonder what on earth I'm standing for--and saying words properly. My cough sounds like I'm puking up my lungs. So, yes, I hid in my car and let the nearly-recovered Chris interact with the movers. I just couldn't. The very notion was exhausting.

Now, we are here, in my in-laws' house. 
Chris has settled in nicely enough. The place is eerily quiet. It's not usually quiet when we're here--the three dogs bark through human chatter and the TV plays sporting events.  Now . . . nothing.  I don't know how to feel about being here--grateful, certainly a great deal, yes. Still . . . could it have been my parents' house? Should it have been? Even though they don't have an extra room? Should it have been a hotel? Or even an air mattress in our empty little place, like squatters in an abandoned fortress?
I don't know how this will go, being here for a week and a half while we wait for February 8--the day of THE event, when it happens, the take-off, the don't-look-back-now-it's-happeneing-for-really-reals-now! day.  I'm nervous about living with anyone--even my own family--for more than three or four days.

I wish I could write something more interesting--I had so many good, funny ideas, but they left randomly, leaving only shadows, and I can't form the words any more.  There will be more, soon.    And I'm hoping it will be quite funny. 

Right now, I'm just trying to process it all and remind myself that my cold isn't REALLY the xombie plague . . . .


For now, here's a cat in a box.

Navi was completely bewildered by the whole turn of events these past two days . . . she could only cope by sitting either in a window or this big empty box . . . "I haz da box. No room for mores. Just me." 

 

BECAUSE I CAN