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Smith Says | On snoring, gall and mothballs

by | May 5, 2018 7:00 am

Last Updated: May 4, 2018 at 10:40 am

Friends, we’ve talked before about Widdle’s snoring. I adore this man, but I have homicide in my heart.

The only thing more fun than night sweats is night sweats with a side of snoring. I lie there in a puddle, thinking murderous thoughts, while Widdle does his imitation of a buffalo fighting barbed wire: “YAWRR! THLLLPPT! HHHAAAAWWWPP!”

And what does he say when I complain? “You were dreaming.” Ha, try again. I dream about normal stuff, like my teeth falling out and being naked on the subway. I don’t dream that my beloved is bellowing in his sleep.

So then he plays his trump card: “YOU snore.” He is so petty.

I. Do. Not. Snore.

My nose, throat and palate work just fine, thank you. But to prove his point, Widdle actually recorded a woman of my size, shape, hair color and sleepwear (boxer shorts and a wife-beater) snoring like a lumberjack in our bed — and claimed it was me! The gall, y’all!

I found a product that might help Widdle: the Zen Breather. It looks like a large pacifier or a small goldfish bowl. The snorer pops it in his mouth, thrusts his tongue into a hard plastic tube to create a vacuum seal, and then goes to sleep. Now that I think about it, HAHAHAHAHA!

These deets are on the website: “The tongue-restraining device holds the tongue forward during sleep to prevent it from obstructing the airway. [It] is intended to pull and retain the tongue in an advanced position during sleep so that the tongue does not collapse against the pharyngeal wall. This collapse happens because of decreased muscle tone which can advance with age.”

I don’t know what a pharyngeal wall is, but you know what else can happen because of decreased muscle tone and advancing age? You can use a plastic pill caddy to flog someone silly, which is what Widdle would do if I ever asked him to stick his tongue into a suction tube and go to sleep.

What about when he rolls onto his stomach, or bites through the plastic? I think we all know how that would go, and it involves blood and 9-1-1. (And possibly me fleeing the house at 2 a.m.)

Brass tacks: the man’s snoring is driving me insane. I wake when a leaf from our magnolia tree hits the ground, so imagine what happens when World War III erupts right next to me.

I don’t so much awaken as levitate off the mattress, my body vibrating like a tuning fork. A wild-eyed, angry tuning fork.

I’ve tried everything. I go to bed an hour before he does. I ask him not to eat after 7 p.m., but who knows what he does after I go to bed? When the caterwauling commences, I’ve tried stroking him gently and whispering, “Roll over, darling.” I’ve tried sticking my fingers up his nose and hitting him with a mag lite. I’ve burst into tears, gotten in his face and sobbed, “Look wah-wah-what you’re doing to me!!!”

Widdle is also the most versatile snorer you’ll ever meet: He snores on his back, side AND stomach.

You could hang him upside down in the coat closet like a bat and he’d still snore amongst the mothballs. He’s that dedicated.

Honestly, I know when I’m licked. The next time I head to the guest room at 3 a.m., I’ll look back at Widdle and remember Dear Abby’s words to a frustrated wife, many years ago:

“Snoring can be the sweetest music this side of heaven. Ask any widow.”

(Julie R. Smith, who finds it hard to count her blessings on three hours’ sleep, can be reached at

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