All I Had To Do Was Get Sick For Husband To Consider the King?

You haven’t heard from me for a few days, because I’ve been under the weather.

Noone worry. It’s not the swine flu. Rather, I have some icky, chest cold thing that makes me sound like Bea Arthur (may she rest in peace – in a king sized bed in heaven).

Smidges of temperature come and go, hacking coughing comes and goes (especially when I need to talk, which has made my conference calls at work very interesting), and – according to Husband –the snoring at night comes, more than goes.

Husband gets props for handling dinner the last few nights (miracle of miracles), grocery shopping, and running out last night to get me Nyquil just minutes before Stargate Universe was to air.

Of course, this means Husband also refuses to get within three feet of me. Touching is out of the question. You’d think I have the Black Death marked on my forehead. I don’t want Husband to catch whatever-the-heck-this-thing-is, but it’s not like I’m carrying the plague either.

He does get extra credit for still sleeping in the same bed with me. (The fact that there is nowhere else to go might have something to do with it, too.) I suggested that if we had that king-sized bed for which I’ve been angling for years, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about catching whatever-it-is-I’m-carrying. He could simply scoot over to his side of the continent bed.

I was met with silence. Maybe if I “forget” to take Nyquil tonight he’ll see the truth in what I say?

P.S. By the way, the king and queen are running neck-in-neck on our poll for the best sized bed for happy coupledom. I trust you voted?