When it comes to thinking about aphrodesiacs and ways to make things more interesting around the home front, Vick's Vap-O-Rub doesn't exactly make me squeal with joy. And it's properties for spicing up an evening aren't legendary in any circles. Sadly, the summer allergies turned to a cold which is now bronchitis and a nasty sore throat requiring the addition of the balm as a remedy not a relationship spark.
I could cheerfully sing the low bass parts to all of the Tabernacle Choir catalog of music. That is, I could sing it... when I have a voice. Most of the time, I'm mute. Which is probably a great relief to everyone who knows me. I tend to be a chatterbox most of the time and I am quite sure their ears are receiving a well deserved break.
But it does tend to interfere with some aspects of daily living. Like when the phone rings and neither Jared or Gypsy can be pressed into service to answer its dulcet tones. Rotten teenager and rotten dog!
Which compels me to answer the phone with my sub-basement voice. My friend called to ask a couple of questions and thought I was my husband. Funny. In that way that it really isn't. I didn't think we sounded that much alike when we talk in any pitch. I could be wrong.
Then there are the delightful telephone surveyers who call to speak to 'the lady of the house' and get a rich baritone for their trouble. Funny thing is, they don't want to talk about feminine products with someone who sounds like they could play power forward for the Lakers. Perhaps it has it's advantages...
But it also has its drawbacks. Prequel to losing my voice entirely is this low register. Now, we are on the downhill slide where I can eek out a word from time to time but the sound can be heard only when you are within a three foot circle of my mouth. Further away and mosquitos laugh at the contrast between their 'booming' noise and my pitiful squeaks and moans.
Added emphasis to my whispering and croaking only makes the scratchiness of my throat worse and infinitely more painful upon swallowing.
So I am reduced to writing notes in large, bold print as if darker letters express urgency to other people, namely my husband, who would much rather enjoy his quiet and play with the new tablet PC that his company provided for him in replacement for the old one. Sure, abandon me for technology!
If dear hubby had learned sign language when the opportunity was offered a few years ago, we could have this thriving and exciting conversation in ASL. But as it is, I am left to scream my hands off to a man who has no clue what I am spelling...which is probably for the best when I start to spell some of the swear words that creep into the vernacular from time to time.
When Rick goes to work, I am left to hope that the people on the phone will not take advantage of the infirmity currently thrust upon me. I can't help how I sound when I have some sound at all.
Their laughter lets me feel the love...
Although I realize that this is a temporary, if painful, time that will move on in a few days, I also realize just how dependent I am on verbal communication. I can email and chat and text till I'm blue in the fingers (nice pun!) but it doesn't replace speech.
Now, it's time to go to bed. I can feel the mentholatum working and I can also feel the cold medicine taking effect on my tired eyes.
I hope tomorrow I can quit applying the Vap-O-Rub like a fragrance from the perfume counter. Somehow, I can't bring myself to believe any major manufacturer would make a lot of money with this as the 'everlasting fragrance to drive Him wild'. And frankly, I don't think I WANT to know a man who is driven to distraction by the smell of ointment.
Enjoy it while you can. I have high hopes that my voice will return some day in the not too distant future. In the meantime, the silence is a gift to you. One less voice in the cacaphony.
June 18, 2009
June 15, 2009
Up On Blocks
It's summertime and that only means one thing - life is up on blocks.
Yes, happy campers, the van is in for repairs.
Just like clockwork, our lives are circumscribed by the faithful eruptions of van troubles and needed repairs just as surely as Old Faithful shoots forth with precision. No more than a couple of weeks after school gets out every year, we go through this charade of hopeful hoopla.
This time, the object of our agony is the long diseased carpeting, which is redolent with the unpleasant aroma of mold, mildew and grime. It will be ripped out and the van will be cleaned, re-carpeted and the sagging sideliners and headliner will be repaired.
That all sounds delightful, doesn't it.
But unless you have been party to the hotbox of mildew on a hot day following a rainstorm, you can't imagine the smell nor appreciate our hopeful anticipation of something remarkably better. Truthfully, just about anything would smell better.
The scent is hard to describe. It's a cross between compost, mildewed leaves and rain forest in a scent Glade could never even market or sell to the animals of the jungle.
Apparently, denizens of the tropics have their standards.
Somehow over the years, the frequent rains seep into not quite closed side windows, windows that have seals that have given up the ghost, or the rains simply pour through completely open passenger and driver door windows that allow for full saturation of the carpeting while the sandman hovers overhead dumping truckloads of magic dust on us at night keeping us from hearing the raging thunderstorm that aims its fury directly into the windows of the van.
The result is that the next day, the carpeting is soaked and smells worse than anything Hollywood prop masters could invent should "Smell-O-Vision" become popular for moviegoers.
Then, just as you think you are safe from the tragedy, the temperature heats up and the thermometer rises and we are left with a hot day in a rolling, air-conditionless oven and a smell worse than death.
Since the van has no air conditioning, breathing will require all of the windows to be open all the way, the vent blowing directly into your face to give fresh air and an extremely strong constitution to endure it all.
But the good news is the van is paid for. Yes. I'm sure that IS the good news.
Yippee.
That's a lot like being announced the grand prize winner of an all-expenses paid trip to the water reclamation facility nearest you. (for those of you not in the know - that's the "poop factory" where they clean your flushed toilet water today so you can use it to brush your teeth tomorrow.)
While it may be some kind of honor, it's hard to smile through the smell.
I won't miss the old carpeting. Nope. Not one bit. Neither will anyone who has ever been forced to ride in my van. And I'm sorry you've had to ride with me. Really I am.
I most certainly won't miss the smell. Who could? Even those long dead would have at least roused enough to plug their noses.
I don't even miss the irony of this circumstance because we've spent enough on this vehicle to have put a sizable down payment on something else over the years. Sad, but true.
The only thing I am missing is my winning prize from Publisher's Clearinghouse that will make this annual summer pilgrimage to the auto shop unnecessary from henceforth and forever.
What line do it get in to sign up for that?
Yes, happy campers, the van is in for repairs.
Just like clockwork, our lives are circumscribed by the faithful eruptions of van troubles and needed repairs just as surely as Old Faithful shoots forth with precision. No more than a couple of weeks after school gets out every year, we go through this charade of hopeful hoopla.
This time, the object of our agony is the long diseased carpeting, which is redolent with the unpleasant aroma of mold, mildew and grime. It will be ripped out and the van will be cleaned, re-carpeted and the sagging sideliners and headliner will be repaired.
That all sounds delightful, doesn't it.
But unless you have been party to the hotbox of mildew on a hot day following a rainstorm, you can't imagine the smell nor appreciate our hopeful anticipation of something remarkably better. Truthfully, just about anything would smell better.
The scent is hard to describe. It's a cross between compost, mildewed leaves and rain forest in a scent Glade could never even market or sell to the animals of the jungle.
Apparently, denizens of the tropics have their standards.
Somehow over the years, the frequent rains seep into not quite closed side windows, windows that have seals that have given up the ghost, or the rains simply pour through completely open passenger and driver door windows that allow for full saturation of the carpeting while the sandman hovers overhead dumping truckloads of magic dust on us at night keeping us from hearing the raging thunderstorm that aims its fury directly into the windows of the van.
The result is that the next day, the carpeting is soaked and smells worse than anything Hollywood prop masters could invent should "Smell-O-Vision" become popular for moviegoers.
Then, just as you think you are safe from the tragedy, the temperature heats up and the thermometer rises and we are left with a hot day in a rolling, air-conditionless oven and a smell worse than death.
Since the van has no air conditioning, breathing will require all of the windows to be open all the way, the vent blowing directly into your face to give fresh air and an extremely strong constitution to endure it all.
But the good news is the van is paid for. Yes. I'm sure that IS the good news.
Yippee.
That's a lot like being announced the grand prize winner of an all-expenses paid trip to the water reclamation facility nearest you. (for those of you not in the know - that's the "poop factory" where they clean your flushed toilet water today so you can use it to brush your teeth tomorrow.)
While it may be some kind of honor, it's hard to smile through the smell.
I won't miss the old carpeting. Nope. Not one bit. Neither will anyone who has ever been forced to ride in my van. And I'm sorry you've had to ride with me. Really I am.
I most certainly won't miss the smell. Who could? Even those long dead would have at least roused enough to plug their noses.
I don't even miss the irony of this circumstance because we've spent enough on this vehicle to have put a sizable down payment on something else over the years. Sad, but true.
The only thing I am missing is my winning prize from Publisher's Clearinghouse that will make this annual summer pilgrimage to the auto shop unnecessary from henceforth and forever.
What line do it get in to sign up for that?
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