Kvetching In Silence

Me, too!

Awfully quiet around here.  No incoherent rambling.  No inappropriate laughter.  No uninterrupted whining.  No sudden outbursts of Broadway show tunes.  Not that anyone is complaining.  Is it my imagination, or do the menfolk look a little bit elated?  They're managing just fine without all the daily verbal instruction, the gentle reprimands, the unsolicited advice.  Even Dusty doesn't miss the clever banter, the endless rhymes, the idle chit-chat.  Yes, for the past few days, the SJG has gone more or less mute, thanks to laryngitis.  "Don't talk," my family keeps telling me.  "Don't whisper," they add.  "That makes it worse."
So I'm not saying a thing.  Who knew it would be such hard work?  I'm exhausted from trying to project my every need, telepathically.  What fun is kvetching if no one can hear you?  And, just between us, kvetching loses its impact when written down.  Friendly demands fall on deaf ears when delivered via text message.  "Is it too much to ask for chicken soup?" doesn't carry the same weight on a notepad.  "What part of 'I'm out of throat lozenges' didn't you understand?" doesn't pack the same wallop on a post-it.  "I'm stilling waiting for that eff'n tea" looks weak when worn on a sign around my neck.  But don't worry.  I'm sure my voice will return any day now.  Till then, I'll make faces, I'll gesticulate, I'll play Charades, I'll hire a skywriter to convey my simple requests:  "Would it kill you to do your own laundry?" I'll suffer in silence, with my customary dignity and grace.  For I am the SJG.  I have a reputation to uphold.