This whole ‘vocal rest’ thing I’m doing to heal my throat and, it is hoped, regain my voice once again in a few weeks, is getting decidedly old.

Part of me thought it wouldn’t be that difficult — armed with pencil and writing tablet, it didn’t seem that big a deal to scrawl out yes and no replies to the queries that usually flow through our home:

‘Do you still have my debit card?’

‘Did you feed Rosie?’

‘Do you still have my debit card?’

What I hadn’t counted on was the utter futility in trying to express myself. During the evening news, by the time I’ve scrawled out a comment about a recent prison break (“Did they say peanut butter??” or, “I wish Dabo would grow his hair out a little more”), the segment is over and we’re in the middle of ‘It’s The Sizzling, Summer Sale At Your Number One Dodge Dealer!’

Thinking perhaps that if I acted things out as one would with an elaborate game of charades, ended up failing miserably when Paul mistook my attempt to physically describe the question, “Is the Great British Baking Show on tonight?” and instead excitedly declared, “Grand mal seizure!”

I’ve even given up watching my favorite show, because the whole point of tuning in ‘International House Hunters’ is to yell at people merely because they don’t share my point of view. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I sat, seething with annoyance, mute, unable to bellow, “No you can’t knock through the wall of a 17th century Italian villa to put in a walk-in closet for your stupid shoe collection! Go back to Bowling Green, you idiot, and buy a condo!”

But mostly, it’s the little things that happen during the day, the seemingly innocuous events that aren’t important enough to bother to write down and shove in front of someone’s face, forcing them to read, but are a little depressing not to be able to share…

“I haven’t seen that mangy fox since I gave him his first treatment. I’m scared he didn’t make it.”

“All the horses were galloping around the field this morning because it was so cool — they think it’s autumn.”

“I’ve actually gotten up three days in a row without stepping in cat vomit!”

Silence, they say, is golden, unless, of course, you have a puppy, then silence is several throw cushions being destroyed. Boy, can I relate. I’m not too far from chewing one up myself.