The Great Snoring Caper

I am pretty sure the purpose of my last grad school class is to…

Make sure I am totally dead.

Apparently, all of the other classes were just a dry run.

I looked at the syllabus over the Christmas break – saw that it was double the work in the same amount of time – and promptly commenced napping. [That’ll show ‘em! Not.]

Personally, I am over being grateful for this educational opportunity.

I also resent teachers telling me what to do [Go away].

I realized sometime last year that I have used school in my adult life to avoid things that I need to be doing because school is my comfort zone.

I do the whole school thing well.

It’s predictable.

It’s safe.

It’s the perfect hideout.

And now I hate my hideout.

Because it is simply no longer necessary.

I want to enjoy the sweet freedom that comes with being single and healthy and happy.

I want to do interesting things that don’t involve professors – unless they are hot and naked and stop their self-masturbatory pontificating long enough for me to bang their brains out.

[Question: Do people still say bang? Or has it entered the nostalgic yesteryear like – shtupping and boinking and knockin’ boots?]

Anyway, enough of that…

I got an A in the last class. I will get an A in this one. Whatever.

Let’s count some success from last year…

Promotion and bonus. Check.

Didn’t overspend during the holidays. Check.

Made a new budget. Check.

Very, very close to paying off my first home loan. [I have two. The second one will take approximately 10 billion years to pay off – but who’s counting?]


I only fired [um… let go of] two doctors.

It’s not that I want to fire them. It’s just that I refuse to “pay” people to annoy me or who suck at their job or who I don’t like or who are condescending, arrogant putzes [which describes 1 out of 2 doctors and every lawyer that I have every met.]

First to get the ax was my dentist who had OCF – Obvious Creepy Factor.

I was 10 minutes late once [just once – I am painfully on time for most things, except of course work – because I don’t care about that nonsense.]

Anyway, he kept saying weird things with the pointy, metal thing in my mouth like – “So you’re the kind of girl who shows up late” and “I bet you do this to all of your doctors.” He said it at least 6 times. [Yes, I counted. If you are cray cray I start documenting it-shay, just in case we end up on Judge Judy.]

Seriously dude? Ew.

Also, get some “help.”

Fired. Next….

My gynecologist.

I never really warmed up to this guy. I don’t trust people who never smile and/or their smile seems like a painful grimace [like they are pushing out a kidney stone]. That’s what Dr. Grimace was like – except when he was flirting with the nurse during my last examination. Suddenly, he resurrected his personality.

First, he would giggle. Then, she would giggle. Then, he would try to be charming. Then, she would pretend that idiot was actually charming?!

Look, I hate to get in the way of a love connection, but is my vajayjay the place you really want to meet “the one”? [Whatever happened to Starbucks or the supermarket…]

I’m just sayin’.

It wasn’t offensive or anything. Just odd.

Which leads me to my new list for 2012.

Things One is Not Allowed To Do While One’s Head is in My Vajajay

1**Giggle. [Obviously]

2**Origami. [Not so obvious, but worth noting]

3**Read. [Unless you’re a speed reader]

4**Conversation of any kind. [My mouth is at the other end.]

5**Pick up babes. [This is the height of bad timing.]

I could have said, “Please stop giggling in my vajayjay.” You try saying that out loud. No really. It’s sounds bat it-shay crazy. No?

Anyway, fired. I didn’t really have a “reason.” I’m not one of those people who feels that I need one either.

Sometimes the best reason is…

Because I said so.

So sayeth the Queen of Furballs and her vajayjay.

There were highlights of wonderful during Christmas break.

Like cleaning. [I know. Right? Who am I?] Every time I moved a chair a furball the size of a tumbleweed rolled out.

I re-arranged my dining room – again.

And I caught up on sleep.

My cat, Scout, has not gotten the I-will-get-up-when-I-damn-well
-please memo. [Neither did the last idiot I dated. Hence, fired. And PS – learn to do things by yourself – like you know, get up.]

Scout feels on the weekend when the sun is up I should be up too.


I will only grace the world with my morning crankiness before 10 am on the weekend if there is: a) a sale, b) an erect penis [attached to a fine ass man] in my bed, and/or c) gardening adventures await.

Every weekend morning, Scout taps on one of my eyelid’s with her big, furry paw as she sits centimeters away from my face on my [I mean her, I mean our] pillow. I only open one eye [because I don’t want her to think she has totally won] – and a mound of furry cuteness is staring back at me intently. I do my best evil, one-eyed stare for 5 seconds – which can be translated loosely to “go away.” Then, I close said eye.

Tap. Open eye. Close eye. Tap. Open eye. Close eye.

And so and so on for about 5 minutes…

In the end, Scout will win the tapping game. Cats always win.

On this particular Saturday, there are 4 eyes staring back at me when I pry mine open at 7 am…


That’s four too many.

“How long have you been staring at me?” I barely mumble and I look at the clock, which says 7:30 am.

“Thirty minutes,” 8-year-old Mikie said confidently.

[Question: Whatever happened to the good old days when kids got up early and immediately started working the farm and whittling toys from wood?]

“And whyyyyyyyy are you doing that?” I whisper – desperately yearning for coffee and trying to see straight.

“Because you are schnoring,” 5-year-old Kayla lisps, in her completely adorable way – as all lisping 5-year-olds tend to be.

But clearly, these early-risers are mistaken. My vessel of loveliness does not snore or fart or get pimples. That is my story and I’m sticking to it…

“Hmmm… do you have any proof?” I said jokingly – like that dude on CSI if he were half-asleep, “Perhaps a recording.”

They started giggling.

They were almost cuter than my cats. Almost.

Little did I know all of the cuteness was the perfect cover to distract me from the start of their calculated and cunning plan…

The Great Snoring Caper.

Mikie and Kayla proceed to do a re-enactment of the alleged snoring incident for me that sounds like a rhinoceros coughing up a tumbleweed. [It was funny. But don’t tell them…]

Later in the day – after they’ve had entirely too much time to embellish their story – they proceed to perform the same “schnoring” re-enactment for my neighbor, Mr. B, who was literally bent over laughing so hard he couldn’t breath or talk.

[Question: Whatever happened to the good old days when children didn’t talk – using only hand puppets to communicate or their hand and a flashlight to make shadows on the wall?]

These precocious bundles of energy belong to my friend, Chloe.

Here is what happened…

I babysat once. They adopted me. Now, I borrow them. We have a blast. I give them back. End of story.

Kids tend to adopt me. I don’t know what that is all about as I am not the type to cry or feel a deep longing in my uterus when I see a stroller .

And I don’t have ticking clocks in my body. If I did, I would seek medical attention.


To two months later and 9 days before Christmas when we are going to have our pre-Christmas. Here’s how it goes…

The munchkins wake up. Santa came and left a bunch of crap. We have a blast. They take all of that crap home with them. Santa cleans up.

Chloe warned me before they arrived that Mikie got a birthday present – a handheld video game with a tape recorder in it. He and Kayla have been devising a plan to tape my alleged snoring for weeks.

Just for the record – when I said they needed “proof” of the alleged snoring – I did not know that children remember EVERY SINGLE WORD YOU SAY.

[Note to self: Shut up.]

That’s okay. I went to bed after them and got up before them – 5 am. [I know. Right? Completely psycho.]

Kayla got up first. 5:30 am. [Ambitious little tyke.] She asked me to go back to schleep. I had ruined the plan. [Insert evil laugh here.]

Mike got up at 8 am. He was annoyed too. [That’s right! I will not be outsmarted by anyone who has their name written inside their clothing. Insert evil laugh again.]

Suddenly, it was a whirlwind of wrapping paper and excitement and I was so, so tired.

It was 9:30 am.

I don’t even remember falling asleep…


I am so friggin’ old. Not the cool and sassy and vivacious old with a short hair cut and dripping with a “come hither, big boy” attitude – like the Golden Girls.

Just regular sleepy old.

[Question: Whatever happened to the good old days when I took my first nap at noon?]

“Wake up, wake up, Auntie.” My eyes popped open – like I was jabbed with a hot poker. I realized my mistake.

[Nooooooooooooooooo! Epic fail.]

There is an evil handheld contraption 5 inches from my face.

“We taped you,” they squealed with the delight. “Listen.” Mikie pressed a button and the recording played.

It sounded like a rhinoceros snorting up a tumble weed – over and over again.

“Oh, that’s just heavy breathing,” I quip – and they fell on the floor laughing like it was funniest joke they’ve heard.

Mikie has played that tape for everyone on the East Coast – and a few stragglers in Canada. Perhaps you’ve already heard it? Received the email yet? He loves to repeat the “heavy breathing” line. [Yes, I am just a hoot with the 5 – 8 year-old crowd.]

In the end, the munchkins won.

And all it took was…


And a very simple plan.


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