Phoebe Buffay Is A Lying Son-Of-A-Bitch

Remember that Friends episode, the one where Phoebe comes down with a cold? (This is Pre-Awkward-Joey-and-Rachel-Love-Digression and Pre-As-Well-As-Post-Bloated-Chandler-Bing.) Well, she gets all phlegmy and germlike right before a singing gig at Central Perk. This spells disaster, right? WRONG! In one of the show's most unexpected plot twists - seriously, it is - surprise! Her rendition of "Smelly Cat" unexpectedly takes on a smoky, alluring tone. She croons! She sidles! She knocks it out of the amateur performer park!

The illness has such a delightful effect on her voice that, after she's recovered, Phoebe goes around frenching Monica's coffee cup to lap up some of her friend's sweet, sweet streptococcus. (I love that word. Every time I hear it, I always picture all these bacterial cells wearing campaign buttons and floating into a convention center in Iowa, all the while chatting about who they think will win the straw poll.)

Well, you know that lovely Phoebe? That quirky character who mercifully stayed the hell away from any love triangle involving Ross and/or Rachel?

She was a lying son of a bitch.

For the last eight days I've had a bastard love child of a cold for, which could only have been created in a devil's three-way of Bacteria, Virus, and the jacuzzi water from the house on Jersey Shore. I've coughed. I've gagged. I've tried fourteen pillow formations to find the optimal angle for sinus drainage. I have even resorted to seeing an actual medical professional, my general physician, and tolerated his Mommy Dearest bedside manner just to get my hands on some sweet, sweet azythromacin. And the one shining beacon of light? The tattered silver lining I am desperately clingling to? That I will temporarily speak in a tone that makes men, and certain women, weak at the knees. What with all the hacking, I am sure that I'll have at least two days of sexy huskiness.

*****
Public Service Announcement: the voice is the only feature of a woman that can be described as "husky" without fear of soul-shattering retaliation. And make sure to start with the word "voice," e.g. "Wow, babe, your voice is so husky as you describe in intimate detail the argument you just had with your sister on the phone." NEVER throw Husky out there without Voice going forward first for reconnaissance.

For example: "Wow babe, you've gotten so husky in your--" This sentence has never been completed in recorded human history, due to the fact that it is always interrupted by the female ripping the male's heart out of his chest, slathering it in Nutella, and feeding it to the male's loyal dog which, as desired by the female, dies of chocolate toxic poisoning. Why kill the dog, you ask? I told you it would get all passive aggressive up in this piece.

*****

Eight days of violently hawking up mucous which, slowly sliding down the side of my sink, reminds me of Gak. Eight days. My sides are sore from the diaphragm clean and jerks. (Note to self: start using Wii Fit again.) Standing over the sink after the most recent lung assault, my reflection de-hunches into mirrored view. Hair wilted, eyes glassy, a gossamer of spit stretching from my chapped lips to my rumpled sweatshirt. I look at myself. I only have one thought.

I'm going to sound so effing hot tomorrow.

I don't. I sound like a squeak toy going through puberty. I don't even give off the the satisfying main note a squeak toy makes. I sound like the before and after: the inhalation right before the toy trumpets its shrill cry, and the exhalation once the cry has run its course. The most unsatisfying part of that generally unsatisfying toy.

What's worse, I can't even determine my level of sexy huskiness, or lack thereof. Due to my hilariously constructed sinus cavity, traffic from my nose is taking up all the drainage lanes. Now the caravan of infection in my ear can't merge. So it just sits there, parked on the Eustachian on-ramp. Nowhere to go. Traffic is backing up, eventually lining up all the way up the canal. In the past, I've had instance where these pathogen passengers have grown so frustrated  that they've gone rogue, essentially pulling a U-turn and speeding backwards up the canal, busting through my eardrum like a car chase in a Michael Bay joint.
While the release of painful pressure was nice, the screeching and ripping that accompanied it didn't seem worth it.

Then there's the fact that I'm essentially hearing impaired for the next six weeks. Well, hearing impaired to any outside sounds, that is. Any sounds from outside my head are muffled like I've stuffed my head between two sonic pillows. But everything coming from INSIDE my head sounds OBNOXIOUSLY loud and oafish. My voice, my breathing, my chewing. All of these sounds trombone their way over any meek squeak from the other side of the tympanic membrane. I interrupt people constantly. This horrifies me enough in normal social interactions. But now, with my faulty eardrums, it could take me agonizing seconds to realize that the other person has started talking. As I chat long, I look at them, and think how odd it is that this person is moving their lips around so much.

And don't get me started on phones: I can't hear them ring in the first place. I have to literally hold my breath so I can tell if that faint chime I sensed was actually the phone. Then, on the rare occasions when I catch the incoming call before it rolls to voicemail, I trip all over the conversation, never settling into that organic conversation rhythm. Eventually I just give up and start talking over the caller:

"Yeah, sure no problem okay well I'm going to go sorry I've been so awkward on the phone but it's just because I've lost some of  my hearing and even though it's just temporary I'm really struggling to hear anything but oddly my own voice sounds really loud sort of like when you're on an airplane and you can just hear yourself you know it's so weird and I've talked to my doctor but he's all Yeah I See a Tiny Little Tear It's No Big Deal but to me it feels like a huge effing deal but I don't want to complain to him because I don't want him to think I'm a wuss but I can't help but think that if his kid had a perforated eardrum on multiple occasions he would say something a hell of a lot more concerned than It's No Big Deal but that's what I get for sticking with a doctor I don't really like It just seems easier to stay with him than try to find a new provider and he does give me Z-pack prescriptions when I ask him to oh that reminds me I have to go pick up that prescription from CVS so I gotta run it was great talking to you I'll definitely work on that thing okay well talk to you later bye!"

Needless to say, the day at work does not go as planned. I allure absolutely no one with my gravelly pipes. The best I get is a faculty member stopping by to see how I'm doing. "I heard you earlier and you sounded like death."

After choking my way through my requisite eight hours at the office, I climb into my car and steer my sniffly ass onto the highway. Merging with traffic, I crank the volume knob to vibration levels just so I can actually hear the music on the radio. I fiddle with the balance, trying to calculate my hearing loss with the amount of sound I have to shift into the left speakers so the sound balances in my head. Finally I find the sweet spot and  Adele's "Someone Like You" settles between my ears. Sure, Adele. You keep your luscious pipes to yourself. Go hang out with Phoebe at open mic night.

Wait a sec ... Phoebe never claimed that her sickness and phlegm made her speech improve ... the phlegm sexified her SINGING. That's it! I bet my hoarseness will transform me from warbly church soprano to Motown crooner. I take a deep breath, wait for the piano to strike, and belt out the chorus the husky (no offense) English songbird.

Instead of smouldering, my voice cracks, breaks, and shatters all over the beginning notes. I try to push through, adding in that hand flutter I always see divas like Mariah Carey do, like they need to conduct themselves through their arpeggios. It does nothing. As I crash and burn my way to the last notes, I realize that a car to my left has pulled even with mine. The driver, a sunglassed TDH (Tall, Dark, Handsome) is staring at me, his brow furrowed. I pause, take a mental step back, and realize he's probably trying to figure out why the hell this crazy woman is shouting and shaking her hand all over the place.

Well, that settles it. I'm feverish, I'm congested, and I have a solid 25% of a hot guy's attention before he has to merge in 25% of a mile. Screw you, Phoebe, I'll take it.