our trek across the Midwest toward Kansas, I forgot one crucial item.
The snore machine. It's the little white noise machine I can't live
(or sleep) without.
I've always maintained that WT could have easily been the next
Pavarotti. He has a beautiful, booming tenor voice, which he
fortunately passed down to our opera singing daughter. This talent
is also displayed nightly, in his great ability to snore. I'm not talking
any old mundane snores, like I am known to do, from time to time.
No, no. He treats me to private sessions of the world's most brilliant
The most impressive, and hardest of all to sleep through, would have
to be the big, broad sweeping Old Man River snores. Forget William
Warfield. WT can snore circles around him. As we crossed the
Mississippi last week, I could see him down there, snoring away on
an old riverboat.
Then there's the charming, fast-clip Gilbert and Sullivan style snores.
These are known to make me climb the walls after 15 minutes, and
sometimes, but hardly ever, make this girl use a big, big D.
A particularly alarming snore, is one that sounds amazingly like a car
back firing. I fondly refer to this one as the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
snore. The mornings following this one, I'm ready to take him over to
Midas for a new muffler.
Last, and my least favorite, is the creepy Hitchcockesque snore. This
one sounds like the doorbell at the manor, when the button sticks.
It's a choking sound that makes me feel like I'm being slowly
strangled with a 1950s nylon stocking. I instinctively feel for my
sewing scissors in the dark.
Needless to say, after a week of encore performances, I'm happy to
be back home, safe and soundless with my handy dandy little snore
machine. I slept 12 straight snoreless hours last night. And don't
worry, my friends, I don't keep my sewing box anywhere near the