In the car on the way home today I realized the most annoying thing about losing my voice. I can't sing. I am recovered to the point where I can manage to croak out some Pogues or Rancid tunes, but things like Melissa Etheridge get a little harder and Alison Kraus or Norah Jones are right out. I'm more of a tenor now than any soprano, and a hoarse one at that. I was talking to this morning while in the grocery store about how my kitten is truly disliking her medicine routine. I had to wrap her in a blanket, pin her to the sofa, pry her mouth open and deliver her pills and white slime while she squirmed and desperately attempted to avoid swallowing anything.

While recounting this tale of woe, I rounded the corner in the store and found my cough medicine. I even bought the generic brand, Kevin, but it was only because it had a "NEW" star burst on it and was a radiant color of orange. Before I made this purchase though, I debated what to buy. I had spent the previous night coughing and hacking and over the course of the week have lost a fair amount of sleep to it. But I loathe taking that disgusting cough syrup and wondered if the gel pills would get the job done. Rich interrupted my internal struggle:

"You really are just as bad as your cat. I could wrap you in a blanket and force you to take your cough syrup twice a day, Miss Kitty."

I'm not sure it's possible to frown over a cell phone and have the reception carry that in the same tone.

And he's probably right that if anyone were to witness our cough syrup delivery routine that no one would really understand.

The kitten and I are off to take more medicine and find some dinner.