Snoring

I've never been able to tolerate a snorer.  Even the lightest snores will keep me awake in a state of edginess, ready to assault my victim should their snores escalate and exceed my toleration barrier.  You know the wet snore - it's the one that sounds like the snorer is gargling on the contents of their own sinuses.

I am married to a snorer.  We've tried everything from nose strips for him, ear plugs for me, even to the extreme of a c-pap machine.  The c-pap came with its own set of problems.  I have a pathological fear of hospital masks.  Anything that looks like it belongs in an ICU room will quickly turn me into a scared crying little girl. 

Well, the c-pap was poorly tolerated by my manperson. At bedtime he felt as though he were locked in eternal battle with a leaf blower, so he ditched the c-pap after a few weeks.

He's back to snoring and I'm back to daydreaming about getting a voodoo doll with Manperson's face on it.

He says I snore too, but since he always falls asleep first and I don't have to try to sleep through myself snoring, I see this as a non-issue.  And because I'm a girl, I imagine that my snores are cute and adorable.

For now, I dose myself on small amounts of Klonopin.  Klonopin is great, kids.  I could sleep through an earthquake with just half a milligram of the stuff.  So, a headset connected to my mp3 player plus klonopin prior to bedtime has, for the most part, resolved my issues with the lumberjack next to me in bed.

My intolerance for snoring goes way back.  Even as a little tike, strange noises coming out of sleeping people was an assault to my senses. 

My best friend in the world, bless her heart, was a wet snorer.  Not a loud obnoxious snorer, but the type that always sounded like she was suffering from sinus problems, as I'm sure she was.  Nowadays I wouldn't hold this against her, but little kids don't know any better.

One night during a sleep over, my mother had announced "Lights Out" and before I had a chance to beat her to dreamland, her snores drifted out from her end of the bed.  Her sinuses must have been giving her hell, but I still needed to sleep.

Kids are extremely inventive. After an hour of nudging with no result, I set about inventing a contraption to stop my friend's snoring once and for all - for the night at least.

All that was required was a long length of yarn, a toe, and a few bedposts. 
One end was attached to her toe, while  the length of the yarn was wrapped around the bedposts and draped over on the opposite side of the bed where I was laying. 

It was designed in such a way that all I had to do was tug on my end of the yarn and her foot would be lifted off of the bed.  Once I let go, her foot would go crashing back down onto the bed, jarring her just enough to interrupt her snoring for a while. 

I soon learned the essence behind "Pavlov's Dogs."  After enough tugging on the yarn and yanking her leg up off of the bed, I believed that I had somehow trained her subconscious brain to keep the snoring to a minimum by negative reinforcement.  Either that or I just grew so tired that I didn't seem to care enough to pull on the yarn anymore by that point.

Twenty years later, I still use this tactic, only slightly modified, of course.  It would be silly to tie yarn to my manperson's toe.  Besides, we don't have bedposts.  Still, negative reinforcement is a powerful motivator even for actions that are not controlled consciously. 

Anything can be used to deter a snorer as long as the action is jarring enough to get them to change position.  Nudging and saying "roll over" can get boring and monotonous, (not to mention mostly ineffectual) so why not make it a little fun for yourself? After all, they're torturing you and keeping you awake anyway, and payback is fun.

If you have a dog, invite them up on the bed. Pick a random spot on your partner. Apply peanut butter. Enjoy results.

Cat + Laser pointer.  Need I elaborate?

Suddenly go manic and fly into a 4 am cleaning frenzy in the bedroom.  My manperson is an exceptionally sloppy human and any fluctuation in the clutter force will interrupt his sleep.  Make sure you clean with the lights on.

Freeze them out. Take away bed partner's blankets and pillows.  Turn fan on high.  Multiple fans work better.

This technique is the opposite of the freeze-out technique.  Pile all the blankets and pillows you own onto bed partner's side of the bed.  The trapped body heat will make them miserable.  If they wake up, tell them they stole the blankets. 

This may not work for everyone, but it has worked for me.  Feign anger.  Jolt the bed as you angrily grab your pillow and blanket, and announce out loud that you're sleeping on the couch.  Make a lot of noise and grumble as you slowly walk away from the bed.  Manperson usually wakes up feeling slightly guilty and takes extra precaution to cease snoring...at least long enough for me to fall asleep in my own bed.

This is a last resort.  Pop an antihistamine like Benedryl, and initiate sex by any means necessary. Once bed partner is wide awake and feeling quite satisfied with him/her self, the antihistamine will have kicked in, allowing you to fall asleep instantly, before post-coital cuddles even. Leave bed partner awake to deal with your snoring.

Really, the possibilities are endless.  Ice cold feet on the butt is simple but effective.  If your partner is an exceptionally light sleeper (mine is not), stand over their side of the bed, and stare at them, grinning maniacally.  Eventually they will jolt awake from the sense of dread and doom emanating from your vicinity. 

Honestly, the most effective way to avoid being kept awake all night by the snot gurgle snoring is to go to sleep before the snorer does.  Some of us are just night owls though.  Take me for example.  The Manperson won't be home until damn near sunrise because he got called in to fix a diseased server at work.  What am I doing? Posting a blog about snoring.  I amaze myself sometimes.  

Personal Log, Stardate 64569.1

OMG so today I saw this:

And I was all like:

But then later, I saw this:

And then I was like:

The End.

Dorothy

On the day I turned six, I got a new neighbor.  By the profound levels of logic innate in all six year olds, I had deduced that because this new person arrived on my birthday, she somehow belonged to me.  She wasn't exactly what I would have asked for as a birthday gift, but she was new and therefore I had to investigate.

My new neighbor wasn't just old...she was ancient, like grandmother ancient.  She came from a time when televisions had hand-cranks and cars were made mostly of wood.  Had I known what a hobbit was at six years old, she would have reminded me of one; short, round, with rosy cheeks and a Rankin Bass cartoon smile.

This would be Dorothy.  But with white hair.  Minus the furry feet.  And the pipe.

She came included with 2 cats, an old man in a recliner, one of those old wooden hand-crank televisions, and her very own set of furniture.  As soon as the moving truck was unloaded, the empty apartment next to mine instantly transformed into the largest doll house known to mankind, and I wanted to play with it.

After the quick introductions which involved my mom's half embarrassed apology for my intrusion into our neighbor's new domicile, and my neighbor's unwise decision to say I was welcome to visit any time, I quickly set about making interior design suggestions and asking the million questions that any six year old would ask when surrounded by unopened boxes on her birthday.

Dorothy and I quickly became the  best of friends, which was not as surprising as one might think. Dorothy was not like most adults who have arbitrary rules for how children must behave indoors.  In fact, Dorothy had almost no rules.  I could

Blow bubbles in her house:

Bring my friends over any time:

Color with crayons and eat lunch *at the same time*:

put doll clothes on her cats:

AND, most importantly, turn her dining room furniture into barnyard animals using cut up pieces of construction paper.

This last part stands out most in my mind.  My best friend helped me to create the most amazing creature in the world using Dorothy's dining room chair and construction paper.  We cut out paper horse parts, taped them to the chair,

and named the chair "Poopsie."  The name came from the fact that attached to Poopsie's rear end with tape was an abstract clump of brown construction paper. I'm sure you can make your own deductions from there.  Poopsie resided in Dorothy's house for as long as I can remember.  Years went by and still there was faithful old Poopsie, ready for adventure, and for sitting on when food was served at the table for her creators. Poopsie's co-creators remain best friends to this day, and we still reminisce about Dorothy and Poopsie.


Later on I would find out that Dorothy never married, never had children, and the creepy man in the recliner was not her husband, but in fact, her older brother.  In retrospect, this would explain why she allowed me, a child, to do all sorts of crazy things in her house.  She had no idea of the consequences of giving a child arts and crafts supplies and an unchecked freedom of her home.

Still, I don't think Dorothy minded any of the crazy things I would do in her home.  In fact, I think she was proud of me because she was always happy with everything I did, and often rewarded me with sandwiches made with Miracle Whip.  Even as a small child I was too fond of Dorothy to ever tell her that I hated Miracle Whip.  I ate the sandwiches as though they were laced with crack.

I lost touch with Dorothy a few years after I moved to a galaxy far far away. Hey, the distance between five states can be measured in light years to a kid that regularly fell asleep on the ride to Wal-mart.

Boys and school got in the way I suppose, but I never forgot about her.  Eventually the letters just stopped coming, and me being the naive person I can sometimes be, figured that she was just as busy as I was. (As if old people in assisted living homes have booked schedules).  I put it out of my mind, but a few years back, when I remembered that the interweb is all powerful, I looked her up in the social security death index. Lo and behold, Dorothy had died at age 79 in 2004 just 2 weeks before my birthday.

Dorothy was an awesome lady. I could feel all guilty about having lost touch with someone to the point of not knowing they had died five years prior, but I'm pretty sure she would just come back as a zombie and scold me for being so negative and hard on myself.  She would do that too, because that's just how freakin cool she was.  Poopsie zombie would be with her, but instead of telepathically begging me for construction paper carrots, Poopsie Zombie would want construction paper brains instead.

And Dorothy, well...she'd probably invite me over for a brain sandwich with cheese and Miracle Whip, and I would probably oblige. You never turn down an undead person's invitation for lunch when you're not actually on the menu.  Besides, I don't have the heart to tell her I still don't like Miracle Whip.

Resolutions Schmesolutions!

Yay, 2011 is on like donkey dongs! I'm still not entirely over the fact that I can't say "oh-ten" like I could with the years "oh-seven," "oh-eight," and "oh-nine."  Perhaps this will be the year of spite where I refer to it as "oh-eleven" just to watch people as they nod and slowly realize that there's a possibility my math skills are not as they should be.

I don't have a new year's resolution. I gave up on that practice several years ago when I discovered that motivation was not something I have an abundance of.  Why? I've yet to figure that out. It's not laziness, for sure.  If I'm asked to do something like move a 300 lb television across the room, I hop to it like Captain Responsibility to save the day!

 If I'm left to my own whims to do simple things like make my bed, I'll get around to it...eventually (not really.)

So here's a list of things I *might* get around to this year:

Moar bullets, please!

Quit smoking.  I smoke. This is a fact.  Yes, I know it's bad for me.  No, I don't need to see more pictures of cancer infected lungs. I am aware of the consequences.

Sadly, my biggest motivator is money. Five dollars a pack just sucks.  I could use that money to promote the illusion that I'm a responsible adult, by doing things like paying back school loans.


 Get a job.  This one is difficult.  I have a couple factors working against me.  As a general rule, I hate people.  Sorry people.  Nothing personal. It's just that a lot of you are dumb and scary and your presence causes me to get headaches and to do this thing where I twitch and palpitate and eventually lose the ability to use my native language in an intelligent manner. Dealing with me in a work environment is much like going through the Dead Marshes with Smeagol/Gollum as your guide to Mordor.

I'm quite happy to do things in order to make my master happy, until I find out he's been fondling his ring of power and letting his fat and stupid assistant manager talk shit about me behind my back.

Lose weight.  This is a silly one.  I don't even know why I put that here.  I'm 135 pounds (9.6 stone, if you're British).   Still within a healthy range, but I'm rather squishy.

  I used to weigh barely 100 lbs, which is pretty freakin' skinny, but not for lack of eating. I love food.  The downside is, I'm unaccustomed to being squishy, and I've become pretty squishy.  The upside - boobs and butt.  On second thought, let's pretend this resolution never happened.


I'm going to attempt to delude myself into thinking I'm totally freakin' awesome.  Why? Why not.  I'm an awkward person.  I've tried pretending to fit in with people, but for some reason, they're able to sniff me out like a bunch of 18th century sailors on a boat with a cross-dressing female stowaway.   I got into a debate with my manperson today about my inability to accept criticism from strangers. Even though I still view the argument as a stalemate, we each made one valid point.

Me: People are assholes.
Him: People are assholes.

Why we disagreed about this, I'm not sure.  But one thing became clear: Assholes' opinions don't count.  So, if you don't think I'm totally freakin awesome, I think you're an asshole.  In my universe, assholes would vanish in a magical puff of smoke.

In a universe where assholes vanish, I'm left with only people who think I'm awesome.  There. Delusion accomplished!

Take my meds! I know this should be a no brainer, but, I'm really bad about remembering to put *anything* in my stomach on a regular schedule.

Like I've said before, I have more good days than bad days with my bipolar, but...just because I'm obliviously happy in my little world doesn't mean I'm stable. Quite the contrary. Some days I'm about as stable as a two legged bar stool on dollar margarita night.

I would add "attempt to procrastinate less," but seeing how I started writing this last week and I'm just now getting around to finishing, editing and adding my artwork of DOOM....yeah, that is so not happening.

Happy New Year Everybody!!

I made this just for you!!

It could be clown vomit, but it's nice and colorful, much like confetti.

I believe an introduction is in order...

Usually the first thing people do when starting up a blawg is introduce themselves to their intended audience.  I am confronted by two issues here:

a) I am not entirely sure who my readers will be, should there be any that haven't been coaxed (threatened) by me to read it in the first place;

and b) I am terrible at introducing myself in a way that doesn't convey the notion that I have no idea what I'm talking about...when I'm talking about myself.


To simplify matters, I am going to make a bulleted list of things I feel are noteworthy about myself.

Firing bullets.....NAOW:

I am a person.  I cannot stress this enough. The last thing I want anyone to do is come away from this introduction confusing me for an android or a Proboscis monkey.

 Proboscis monkey-->







<-----Android.






I draw things.  Sometimes I draw things that make people stand in shock and awe of my skills. My artwork can make grown men weep in deep appreciation of the finer arts and what I have contributed to the world.  And then sometimes, I draw things like this:

I am bipolar. I have more good days than bad days thanks to modern medicine.  I am just balanced enough to still recognize my own craziness, which I try to channel into my art when the chance strikes.

I am colorblind. I am still a trichromat, but my color seeing abilities are skewed at best.  I have my manperson (husband) preapprove my paint selections before I set off on a new canvas adventure.  In the digital world, I rely heavily on RGB values.

I am a gamer.  No, I don't mean I play Peggle while waiting for the laundry to dry like a good little housewife.  I play games where things fall over and bleed when I stab them or cast magic missile on them.  Some members of the male species find this extremely attractive in a woman.  You try living with a girl who hasn't brushed her hair in 3 days because she hasn't beat Dragon Age yet.

Just in case the former bulleted facts haven't made this next point painfully obvious; I am a huge nerd.  I love all things Star Trek and Doctor Who.  I love science and video games and reading and the smell of static bags from newly shipped computer parts.

I have 2 cats and one very stoopid dog.  My cats are mostly awesome even though they have their own mental issues. My dog belongs on the short bus.  With a helmet.

I am an outspoken atheist.  Some people feel this isn't worth bringing up.  You try living in the southeastern United States. People around here don't like others who don't believe exactly the same things they do. Because I am who I am, I take great joy in rubbing people the wrong way after they've belittled and berated me for not sharing in the hive mind.

I firmly believe that somewhere in my brain is a tiny black hole that randomly steals pointless things from my memory.  I can remember playing with my Mickey Mouse canteen from when I was 2 years old, but I can't remember my manperson telling me about our plans to have dinner with my in-laws next week.  It's not that I just forgot and need a reminder, noo...it's much more pathological than that. I have no recollection that the topic came up.  Some people might call it a selective memory.  I say it's a black hole.

And last but not least, I am a stay-at-home housewife that really sucks at being a responsible adult.  Half the time I can't cook a dinner without begging mom for help with interpreting the recipe, and she still folds laundry for me because wardrobe origami is not in my list of skill sets.

That is me, in a nutshell.  There is lots more, I assure you, but I need to save things for future stories and ramblings. Now, I must go make Tea. Earl Grey. Hot. Make it so.