I went out last night. Beers were consumed, stories told, things got late. What I'm trying to say is that the following is a re-post from well over a year ago, before everything changed.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have water to quaff...
If you’ve heard that I’ve smothered my husband in his sleep, do not rush to my defense.
There’s a chance it may be true.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to have to kill him. But he left me no choice. And look on the bright side! Think of all the time prison will give me to write!
But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?
Why, I hear you ask, would a normally reasonable woman hold a pillow over her husband’s head until he ceased to struggle?
One word: Snoring.
I’ve been told that I, too, snore; and if you know me, you know that this is a damnable lie, perhaps perpetrated by mine enemies, people who will also tell you that I need help with crossword puzzles (not true) and cadge cigarettes when intoxicated (quite possibly true).
But snoring? Me?
Hey. This isn’t about me. This is about William Throckmorton the III, the man bent on destroying me through sleep deprivation.
Of course I have my coping mechanisms…
For example, my initial response to the snoring is a quick nudge or a vigorous shaking of the bed. I file this under the category of him possibly thinking, whilst asleep, that there might be an earthquake or a tornado happening, thus causing him to alter his breathing patterns.
This never works, but it’s always in my first round of defense.
Next comes the verbal jab. “Willie! Stop snoring! Roll onto your belly! Willie!!”
This usually works for a minute or two, as Willie’s unconscious mind registers a number of things: 1, that’s my name; 2, sounds like my wife, and 3, grblx zinkt offun garbin.
I don’t know what that last bit is, but it’s what he mutters just before he falls back asleep.
And resumes a vigorous snoring.
It is at this point that I become inventive.
“Willie! Did you see that letter from the IRS?”
“Sphurbim?”
“The letter from the IRS. Did you see it? The child support!”
Willie has no children, but he has stopped snoring. The room takes on an expectant air; and while still asleep, his breathing has taken on an even-keeled quality rarely found in his waking moments.
“I sent them an e-mail. Luckily, since we won the lottery this afternoon we’re going to just write them a check, okay?”
“Sphurbim. Bracken farva lottery shopping spree.”
“And remodel the bathroom, right?”
Willie loves this part. Our bathroom appears to have been originally modeled on the 70s sitcom “Good Times”, or perhaps “Maude”. Suffice it to say that the color once referred to as “Harvest Gold” figures prominently.
“Mmmm,” he says. “New tile.”
And that will take care of the snoring, usually for the rest of the night.
Good ol’ Willie. Long may he live.
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