What To Do When The Snorchestra Begins

snoring man

I took off my glasses and turned off the light.  I pulled the covers up, rolled on my side and closed my eyes.

That’s when it started.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

It was like the sound my car made when the alternator died.  But unlike the noise that stopped once I realized turning the key with greater frequency would not revive the lifeless battery, this sound continued.


The cacophony, which I feared would rattle my glasses off the nightstand, jeopardized not only my martial bliss, but my pre-menopausal ability to catch some Zzzzs without sucking on an Ambien.

The Husband was asleep on his back, which meant – he was snoring.

He denies that his supine slumber treats me to the occasionally nasal symphony.  But that night, I stared Eyes Wide Open into the dark listening to his mournful Call of the Loud that sounded like the guttural musings of a small wounded rhino. 

It made me a wee bit cranky.

So I engaged in a little snoring research thanks to my midnight wakefulness.  At 12:37 a.m., I learned that Psychology Today called snoring “The Silent Relationship Killer.”

Silent? Seriously?  From my side of the bed, it was like having a spirited performance by Jackson State University’s “Sonic Boom of the South” Marching Band.  I could have dozed more peacefully on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

At 12:52 a.m., I discovered The Husband is in good company with brother and sister snorers Napoleon and Queen Victoria.

At 1:03 a.m., I learned that 45% of spouses say their partners saw wood while sleeping. According to USA Today, only 5% of the accused plead guilty to creating the nocturnal bedlam. All in all, fifty million households are affected by snoring.  Which means at any given moment, 25 million kindred spirits are wide-awake staring at their computer screens just like me.

Around 2:17 a.m., I read that pillows or sleep position could be the problem.

So I went back to bed.  I slid under the covers and noted The Husband was still sleeping flat on his back.


I checked the pillows.  Mine seemed just fine – for putting over his face if necessary.

If The Husband rolled on his side, I knew the noise would stop.  So I offered a little encouragement.

I tried the Big Toe Nudge.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Snorchestra continued.

I attempted the Flailing Rollover, Cover Tug-o-War accompanied by a Loud, Exasperated Sigh.


It was time to Go for the Gold.  I pulled both legs in and planted them firmly on The Husband’s hip like Nadia Comaneci sticking the landing of a double back flip.


Finally, I started throwing elbows like Ron “Metta Ain’t No World Peace” Artest at James Harden’s head.

That got his attention.

“Why’d you wake me up?” The Husband asked.

If my elbows were sharp, my 3 a.m. tongue was sharper.  “ROLL OVER,” I snarled.  “YOU’RE SNORING.”

“I don’t snore,” he said rolling onto his side.

Snickety. Snick.

Unlike Artest, I didn’t need a ref to eject me. I was defeated.  At 3:15 a.m., I took my pillow and headed for the living room couch.  Just Hank the Dog and me.

I pulled the quilts up, rolled on my side and closed my eyes.  That’s when I heard it.  And then, I smelled it.

Stinkity. Stink. Stink.

Tonight, even sleep on the couch was not to be.  Because courtesy of Hank, I was now experiencing Franz Peter Shubert’s Old Canine Nocturnal Serenade: for Percussion and Wind.

image: 123RF


  1. A pillow over the face works wonders…..He can’t snore if he’s unconscious;)

  2. That’s why I’m so particular about my pillows. You just never know. . .

%d bloggers like this: