Undercover Brother

The barometric differences between North Carolina and Maine, combined with flying, turbulence and the onset of God...No Winter have taken their toll on me. Throw in the fact that I slept no more than 3 hours per night while away, and you have, well...The ICK.

While not quite elegant enough to be the croup, and not feverish enough to be a cold, it has been truly miserable. I have lost my hearing, my sense of taste, and my sense of smell.

Then there's the cough. Ragged, rough and scratchy, it has rendered my voice gravely and deep, with raspy undertones. Thanks to allergies, this happens in the spring and the fall. Chachi calls it my Rocker Chick voice.

So last Monday found me exhausted, but back at work. Each time I spoke, people cringed. They made me tea. They bought me cough drops. Around noon, I began to hear rumblings from the boss: "That girl needs a hot toddy".

No, I thought. "This girl needs to get back to a routine. Leave me alone!"

Later that afternoon, my voice was rendered virtually useless. Chris, my coworker, was trying to help with a floor plan issue without making me talk.

Oh, come on! I rasped. It's not that bad! Besides, I sound much worse than I feel! Chachi calls this my Rocker Chick voice!

Which Rocker Chick do you think you sound like? Chris asked.

I don't know, I answered. Maybe Stevie Nicks?

Chris shook his head.

Melissa Etheridge?

Another no.

Kim Carnes?

Another shake of the head.

Amy Mann? Amy Ray? Emily Saliers? Pat Benetar? Lita Ford?

I was rapidly decreasing my Rocker Chick Cache; each offering was met with rejection.

Finally, Chris muttered "Renn, you sound like..."

I didn't hear the name.

Who?! I screeched.

Chris began to back up. He cleared his throat and whispered, "Uh, well. You sound like, um..." He drifted off again.

Oh, come on! I hissed. Just say it!

"RuPaul".

WHO?!

"Um... Ru. Paul." Chris had now backed himself into a corner, both literally and figuratively.

"RuPaul?! The Drag Queen?!"

"Yeah. That one." Chris then turned his attention to another floor plan, attempting to change the subject to something less inflammatory.

The rest of my day was spent in near silence, trying to preserve what little voice and dignity was left.

When I returned home, I asked Chachi which Rocker Chick I sounded like. The moment I spoke, his head cocked to the side - and an eyebrow shot up.

He declared my voice "interesting". Not exactly a vote of support.

Since pretty much EVERY co-worker recommended a hot toddy, Chachi agreed that maybe it would help. I went to the ABC store for whiskey.

When I stepped through the door, it hit me. I hadn't been in an ABC store in over 12 years. I felt a little guilty, but couldn't begin to explain why. I walked directly to the counter and asked for help. Both employees raised their eyebrows and asked 'Hot Toddy?' I said yes, but that I really only wanted enough alcohol for ONE, if possible.

Technical questions followed about whether I wanted single or double malt. I laughed and said "I don't think that really matters. I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything. I can barely HEAR anything. I have coughed for a week straight, and my co worker thinks that I sound like a drag queen. Do you have anything for THAT?!"

They laughed and handed me one of those airplane sized bottles of Jim Beam. I went home, and my HUSBAND - who has never drank, smoked or touched drugs- made me a hot toddy. For those that may be concerned, I must admit: the drink was perfectly revolting, and seemed to burn a bunch of stuff on the way down my throat. I slept through the night for the first time in over a week, and my voice is less RuPaul and more Renn with sinusitis. I am still coughing, but I can at least breathe a little bit better.

Part of me wishes that I had stuck with RuPaul. That voice may have come in handy during bedtime sing a longs with Nooze...