Yesterday, one of the worst possible things that could happen to me occurred: I lost my voice.
Gasp! Shock! Outrage! No!
Tis true, my homies. Tis true. I had no voice.
In fact, the only audio I could utter sounded suspiciously like an amorous bullfrog.
(Yes, I really do know what an amorous bullfrog sounds like. I live an interesting and colorful life filled with weird country noises. Visit me sometime.)
My family was less than sympathetic with my despair over being voiceless. They weren't devastated. They didn't offer words of support or encouragement. Instead, they rejoiced.
That's right. My family was thrilled that I couldn't speak.
They may have even danced a happy jig in the living room. Then, they decided to mess with me a bit.
Dinner in our house is usually a lively affair with stories of everyone's day and casual conversation sprinkled with lots of laughter. I love it.
Last night was different. Very, very different. My family decided to be silent. As in they didn't speak.
At all.
Not even bullfrog noises.
Last night you could have heard a mouse fart half a mile away.
(I'm pretty sure one did.)
The silence was painful. It made me crazy because I like a noisy chatter during mealtime.
At one point I started whacking my fork against my plate just to have the utter stillness go away.
After twenty frustrating and silent minutes, I managed to croak out "There are Klondike bars in the freezer for dessert". An involuntary "woo hoo!" escaped from my oldest's mouth. It simultaneously broke the silence and restored my faith in my family.
God love those good folks at the Klondike bar factory.
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