Say what?

So I didn't post yesterday or today, which to me is Friday, which by the clock is Saturday, so I suppose I should write "so I didn't post Thursday or Friday," but since I'm still awake from when I awoke Friday I'll stick to my original statement.

Today I lost my voice. Well, I didn't lose it so much or misplace it, as I know directly where it went. It went right down my throat, carried by the torrential rivers of snot that flowed freely from my sinus passages. I had my voice this morning, although it sounded a bit like Lauren Bacall (which, hey, I'm not gonna complain because who doesn't want to sound like Bacall without the risk of lung cancer) and I was able to deliver my monthly report to my staffers at Chesterfield, complete with the second showing of my Channel 5 debut and the second reading of my essay. Neither of which was my idea, but when the person who signs your paycheck says, "Hey, why don't you show that at the staff meeting..." you don't really have much room to argue.

So I presented and it went fine and then I had a brief meeting with my boss and another person and that went fine, although I noticed that I was starting to sound a bit more crackly.

Then I tried singing to some great rock songs in my car on the way back to the main office, and those just sounded downright awful, even by my standards, which are rock bottom to begin with, and by about lunch time the voice was pretty much gone.

I came home and shoved chicken noodle soup down my gullet in an futile attempt to "fix" everything, but I think it only made it worse, as by around 1:30 I could speak in nothing more than a whisper.

Or "wheeesper" as Zozo likes to say.

This is by no means anything bad, given how much I like to talk. I figured it was, you know, God's way of letting everyone else in America (or at least in my social circle) have a chance to say something. But then I realized we were going to a party tonight. And not just any old party, a carolling party. Oh, crap. I'm supposed to, like, um, sing. Yeah, that's so not going to happen.

So we went to the party, and I let my husband introduce me to people and took in all the sympathetic looks, which I tried to be gracious about and also tried to convey with my eyes, "no, this is a good thing, because if I could talk, well, you wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise." Then it came time to carol and I respectfully bowed out due to having not even a peep to contribute. M left with everyone else I knew, which weren't many people, but hey, it's gourmet cooking and lots of interesting strangers, so who am I to complain.

First I was talking (or listening, rather) to a couple of ladies who were perfectly wonderful but who lost me around the five-minute mark of discussing which dishwasher detergents leave spots on your glasses and which don't. Frankly, I don't care which do and which don't, as long as there isn't any leftover crud in there that I don't want to see after I down my milk. Lovely women, but, oh, look, I need more wine.

So I moved on. To the beverage bar, where I found that the red was open and breathing fine, but my bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay had been killed many moments before and was replaced by another which was, unfortunately, not open yet. Shit. I, among my various assorted talents, do not know how to use a real corkscrew.

I grabbed the bottle in one hand, and the corkscrew in another and whipped around. I saw a kitchen full of men of assorted ages talking in little clusters. Well, here goes. In what little voice I had left (which was nothing more than a whisper, really) I shouted, "Hey, I need help!" I caught the attention of the two gentlemen standing closest and no one else, but that was all I needed as the Kendall Jackson was uncorked in no time and I was then talking to people who were not discussing dishwasher detergent.

Instead they were talking Mizzou's ignonimous (is that a word? who knows, I've had too much wine tonight) defeat to Oklahoma. I can hang with that, so cool, we started talking (or, I started listening and nodding with intense feeling, since I still couldn't talk). Then I realized that these people (who included someone called Taco Tammy, don't ask me) really do know college football as they were actually discussing, you know, players and coaches from other teams. Okay, I'm doing well to name the quarterback from Mizzou. Love 'em, huge fan, but don't really have time to follow them avidly, much less any other college teams. Heck, I just found out today that the Cards cut Eckstein loose...that mourning will have to start tomorrow as I'm tapped out for tonight. What I'm trying to say is that while I like sports (or "sparts" as we here in the Lou like to say), it's not real high on my list of priorities at this time.

So, you know, I started to zone out. This is when you start scoping the room to see who else you can talk to. So far I've culled out the Dishwasher Detergent Duo and the Sparts Nuts. Around this time I see some dude across the kitchen showing a photograph to some other dude. I can't tell for sure, but it looks like the photograph is of a sculpture. I can't tell if the guy did it himself, but I'm thinking, if he didn't, why the hell is he showing it to someone else.

Intrigued, I manufacture a way out of the Sparts Nuts conversation, "Is that right, Taco Tammy? Oh, look I see some plates I should clear..." I get the dirty plates and deliver them to the kitchen sink which is where Sculpture Guy is standing. I waited for a break in the conversation and then made a complete ass of myself trying to explain to a Hungarian immigrant in an American whisper that I'd like to see the pictures he's got in his pocket.

Turns out he's a graphic artist by trade, and just a general kick-ass artist by nature. He sculpts in multiple media (marble, metal, whatever) and photographs and does a myriad of other things. I don't get to meet real artists often. Or "arteests," rather. Actually, I've met only like three in my life. One was tonight, so it was a pretty damn big deal.

At least, it was to me. My husband and my FIL got a charge out of my newfound crush, but I'd say it was the artist's equivalent to the engineer meeting Wernher Von Braun, so they can just can it.

So, despite the fact that I still can't speak, it was a great evening.

Huh. Maybe I should try not speaking more often.