Disclaimer: this post has virtually nothing to do with travels, Australia, or interesting experiences I have had. It occurs because Jamie's snoring kept me awake last night and I am grumpy. In my humble opinion, snoring is one of the absolute worst things in the world. It is a horrible sound, calling to mind a mixture of snot and choking, and occurs during one of the most peaceful times of day or night: sleep. Now, in the interest of honesty I must confess I am guilty of the occasional sleep transgressions. I talk in my sleep and steal blankets like its my job. However, I do NOT snore, and anyone who tries to tell my otherwise will get a stern talking to.
But back to my original point: Jamie snores. Fortunately not often, but he makes up for quantity with quality, if you can call it that and produces snores of such impressive decibels that I have been woken up by his nasal exclamations. I have chosen to deal with said issues in a variety of ways, which I was expound upon now. Feel free to use them upon any snoring relations of yours, I guarantee success.
1. The one-two punch. This is by far the most efficient way of stopping a snorer, though also the riskiest. It involves literally punching your sleeping partner, upon which they will wake up, surprised, and ideally, baffled as to why they woke up, roll over and continue to slumber peacefully and silently. Now I did say that it was risky, because you always run the risk of your sleeping partner waking up upon the punching, recognizing it as such, and accusing you. As you are probably the only other person in the bed, you won't be able to shift the blame, and will have to own up to the consequences of your actions. Another potential pitfall with this plan is that your sleeping partner may feel as though they are being attacked, and in their confused half-asleep state, seek revenge. Heads up.
2. The continued lean. I am partial to this method. Its subtle, effective, and reduces the odds that you will be in the receiving end of a half-awake punch in the face. This requires you gain a bit of purchase on the bed, wedge an elbow or shoulder into your sleeping partner and apply slow steady pressure until they shift enough to stop snoring. They may wake up, but if they do, its very easy to either feign sleep, or simply convert your wedging elbow into a snuggle arm.
3. The pincer move. This is a recent discovery, and one I am quite proud of. Its direct, humane, and allows one to continue whatever one may be doing whilst one's partner sleeps peacefully. I discovered this method while Jamie and I were watching Primary Colors. Not finding the Clinton allegory as interesting as I was, Jamie promptly fell sleep with his face mere inches from mine and began snoring loudly into my ear, drowning out John Travolta's poor attempt at Bill-esque sex appeal. I tried the continued lean, to no avail, contemplated the one-two punch, but couldn't bring myself to visit shock and pain upon my peacefully sleeping boyfriend. However, I couldn't hear Kathy Bates. At a loss, I reached out and pinched Jamie's nose. Silence. He continued breathing happily through his mouth and I heard every plot point. It should be mentioned that this method is not sustainable. Eventually, your peacefully slumbering partner will object to being manhandled and will begin to thrash around like a frightened shark. At this point, you must let go, or face the inevitable uncomfortable questions as to why you have a death grip on his or her schnozz.
Well there you have it. My patented anti-snoring devices. Stay tuned for more substantive posts when I am not sleep-deprived or hearing sinus orchestras ringing in my ears.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
In which I am a master baker
The title of this blog is dedicated to Brett Perrotta, friend, fellow travel blogger and appreciator of raunchy puns extraordinaire.
So here I am in Queensland, enjoying a work-free, obligation-free six weeks that are passing much too quickly. At times, I feel like a lazy sack of shit as I watch Jamie go to work at 5:30 am every morning, but then I reminded myself that there are few opportunities to simply do nothing in life, and they become few and far between as time goes on (disclaimer: yes, I know I used exactly the same argument to justify my laziness in January before I left for Australia, but lay off), and I should just take advantage of it. Also, no one wanted to hire a skill-less American for six weeks. Life goes on.
So here I sit, blissfully in my pj's at ten am, tapping away at the computer with a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside me and the whole day stretching out before me, blissfully empty. This is not to say that I am bored. I read, I go for walks, I play guitar, I keep Jamie updated via text message on Paul the Psychic Octopus, I'm a busy girl! But the best thing about this time to myself while Jamie is off bringing home the proverbial bacon, is that I BAKE.
Allow me to preface by saying that prior to my current housewifery, "domestic" was not a word that easily described me. When I would tell people that I was coming to stay with Jamie for six weeks, during which I would be essentially a housewife, I was met often with incredulity and more than once with "I canNOT see you as a housewife." Though I probably would have been mildly offended if anyone had suggested that housewifery was EXACTLY what they saw in my future, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. True, I was not a good cook. True, most evenings, left to my own devices I would make myself such hastily thrown together "meals" as a mustard sandwich, or cheese. "Baking" didn't even exist. So I vowed to myself that my time in Queensland would turn me into a domestic diva.
I baked several batches of chocolate chip cookies, ranging in their palatableness, and one DISASTROUS batch of sugar cookies, whilst in Melbourne, but leaving no indications that I shows any sort of aptitude for baking and/or cooking. I resolved to change this when I arrived in Queensland, and thus far I have baked chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal white chocolate cookies, snickerdoodles, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin-chocolate brownies, and, most recently, boysenberry shortcake. Suck it, Martha Stewart. I list all of these culinary achievements not to brag (ok, yes to brag) and also to prove that one does not need to have any initial signs of ability in order to have a successful career as an amateur (or in my case, master) baker. It gives me a ridiculously pathetic sense of accomplishment to take my latest creation out of the oven and gleefully feed it to anyone who will let me. Frequent victims are Jamie's parents, to whom I apologize in advance for any obesity, high blood pressure, or diabetes that may result from having these buttery, sugary creations crammed down their throats a few times a week.
Baking and cooking are probably two of the first things to hit the chopping block with a busy life, and I find that lamentable. There is a quiet peacefullness, or in my case, its equivalent (frantic neurosis) to be found in dutifully or not so dutifully following a recipe and reaping the delicious rewards for yourself and loved ones. I have been frequently guilty of pleading lack of time and just throwing a pot of pasta on the stove for the umpteenth time, but I hope that that will change when I return to DC. It is cliche, but food feeds not just your body but your soul, and especially with my penchant for buttery delights, I fear I am forgoing the physical for the spiritual benefits.
And finally, because he always complains that he is only a secondary character in my blogs and never a main player, here's a little shoutout to Jamie. All the joy I have found in baking and cooking would be inconsequential without my dutiful guinea pig to try out new recipes on. Though I worry slightly about his impartiality, hearing him grunt "Mm 'sgood babe" around a mouthful of whatever I have placed before him is immensely gratifying. And, lest we forget, I wouldn't even have this opportunity to lead this life of luxury and idleness if it weren't for Jamie's generous offer to share his home and his life for these six weeks. Never underestimate the quiet contentment that is to be found in falling asleep and waking up next to someone you love and who returns that love to you, plus interest.
So here I am in Queensland, enjoying a work-free, obligation-free six weeks that are passing much too quickly. At times, I feel like a lazy sack of shit as I watch Jamie go to work at 5:30 am every morning, but then I reminded myself that there are few opportunities to simply do nothing in life, and they become few and far between as time goes on (disclaimer: yes, I know I used exactly the same argument to justify my laziness in January before I left for Australia, but lay off), and I should just take advantage of it. Also, no one wanted to hire a skill-less American for six weeks. Life goes on.
So here I sit, blissfully in my pj's at ten am, tapping away at the computer with a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside me and the whole day stretching out before me, blissfully empty. This is not to say that I am bored. I read, I go for walks, I play guitar, I keep Jamie updated via text message on Paul the Psychic Octopus, I'm a busy girl! But the best thing about this time to myself while Jamie is off bringing home the proverbial bacon, is that I BAKE.
Allow me to preface by saying that prior to my current housewifery, "domestic" was not a word that easily described me. When I would tell people that I was coming to stay with Jamie for six weeks, during which I would be essentially a housewife, I was met often with incredulity and more than once with "I canNOT see you as a housewife." Though I probably would have been mildly offended if anyone had suggested that housewifery was EXACTLY what they saw in my future, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. True, I was not a good cook. True, most evenings, left to my own devices I would make myself such hastily thrown together "meals" as a mustard sandwich, or cheese. "Baking" didn't even exist. So I vowed to myself that my time in Queensland would turn me into a domestic diva.
I baked several batches of chocolate chip cookies, ranging in their palatableness, and one DISASTROUS batch of sugar cookies, whilst in Melbourne, but leaving no indications that I shows any sort of aptitude for baking and/or cooking. I resolved to change this when I arrived in Queensland, and thus far I have baked chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal white chocolate cookies, snickerdoodles, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin-chocolate brownies, and, most recently, boysenberry shortcake. Suck it, Martha Stewart. I list all of these culinary achievements not to brag (ok, yes to brag) and also to prove that one does not need to have any initial signs of ability in order to have a successful career as an amateur (or in my case, master) baker. It gives me a ridiculously pathetic sense of accomplishment to take my latest creation out of the oven and gleefully feed it to anyone who will let me. Frequent victims are Jamie's parents, to whom I apologize in advance for any obesity, high blood pressure, or diabetes that may result from having these buttery, sugary creations crammed down their throats a few times a week.
Baking and cooking are probably two of the first things to hit the chopping block with a busy life, and I find that lamentable. There is a quiet peacefullness, or in my case, its equivalent (frantic neurosis) to be found in dutifully or not so dutifully following a recipe and reaping the delicious rewards for yourself and loved ones. I have been frequently guilty of pleading lack of time and just throwing a pot of pasta on the stove for the umpteenth time, but I hope that that will change when I return to DC. It is cliche, but food feeds not just your body but your soul, and especially with my penchant for buttery delights, I fear I am forgoing the physical for the spiritual benefits.
And finally, because he always complains that he is only a secondary character in my blogs and never a main player, here's a little shoutout to Jamie. All the joy I have found in baking and cooking would be inconsequential without my dutiful guinea pig to try out new recipes on. Though I worry slightly about his impartiality, hearing him grunt "Mm 'sgood babe" around a mouthful of whatever I have placed before him is immensely gratifying. And, lest we forget, I wouldn't even have this opportunity to lead this life of luxury and idleness if it weren't for Jamie's generous offer to share his home and his life for these six weeks. Never underestimate the quiet contentment that is to be found in falling asleep and waking up next to someone you love and who returns that love to you, plus interest.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
In which left is right
Disclaimer: this blog is from last Monday, but due to technical difficulties (I have a hard time working Jamie's computer and can't figure out how to get mine to connect to the internet) its taken over a week to upload.
It may surprises some to know that in the five months that I have been in AUstralia, I had not driven a car until this morning. I really haven't had much occasion to get behind the wheel,except when my parents came. Then my father quickly monopolized the driving portion of the trip because apparently dying in a blazing fireball was not on his list of things to do in Australia. Its not so much that I am a bad driver, its just that I spook easily, like a thoroughbred horse or a chihuahua, which can make me a tad overexcitable on the road. So frankly, up until today, I had been perfectly content to mooch rides of others, and had very little desire to experience life on the other side of the road.
That is, until Jamie offered to let me have the care so I could go grocery shopping today. The last time I went grocery shopping in our sleepy suburb of Redland Bay, I took the bus. Five months in Bundoora has made me fairly confident in my public transit abilities, and I had actually taken Queensland public transit quite a bit during Kara and my Easter Break hobo extravaganza, so I was feeling pretty good. Jamie carefully pointed out the bus stop by our house to me, and getting there proved no problem. It was the getting home that would prove difficult (foreshadowing). I reached the bus depot at the shopping centre lugging my groceries, only to realize that I had no clue which bus I had taken to get there and there were approximately five different buses I could potentially take. Did I mention at the time I didn't know our house number, town or street? Yup. I quickly called Jamie at work and ascertained that I was to take the bus to Redland Bay and get off "at the tennis courts." Groceries in tow, I staggered aboard and confidently asked the driver if he stopped at the tennis courts. "Which tennis court?" Zing. I was stumped. I was in trouble, but wilted under his stare and meekly headed back a seat, where I proceeded to drop one of my grocery bags and crawl around on the floor in pursuit of errant fruits and veggies. Order temporarily restored, I glued my nose to the window in search of familiar landmarks. FInally I spotted what I thought was a familiar field, lunged at the stop button and dragged myself and my groceries past the glaring driver only to find myself standing in a field I had never seen before. I'm ashamed to say, standing there in that strange field, carrying upwards of five bags of groceries, I began to cry, sure that I would never see Redland Bay again, much less America, and Jamie would have to spend the evening driving around calling my name out the window. Fortunately this was not to be the case, and I soon flagged down another bus, this one driven by the same kindly bus driver who had dropped me off at the shopping store. He looked on concernedly as I lurched aboard, sweaty and tear-streaked, and helpfully told me where to get off....one stop later.
So you can perhaps see why I was so eager to avoid the bus. This meant, however, driving Jamie to his brother's house at 5:30 in the morning, in the dark, and navigating home solo, all on the opposite side of the road. As with the grocery debacle, getting there was no problem, and in fact, lured me into a false sense of security. I was Ellen Lathrop, champion left-side driver. I confidently plunged down a side street that looked marginally familiar, only to realize I had no idea where I was, and even less of an idea how to get home. As I wound through street after street, with no sign of the main road, I became more and more confident that I would die wandering these side streets, and months from now, my skeleton would be found, still doggedly clutching the steering wheel. This was not to be the case, however, as I came upon some old ladies walking and yelled for assistance. These angels of mercy pointed me in the right direction and I was soon homeward bound, rolling merrily along, 10 K under the circumstances, blithely ignoring the glares of drivers passing me. Somehow, a good half hour after I should have been home, I rolled into our driveway and victoriously texted Jamie that I had only gotten lost once...ok twice.
It may surprises some to know that in the five months that I have been in AUstralia, I had not driven a car until this morning. I really haven't had much occasion to get behind the wheel,except when my parents came. Then my father quickly monopolized the driving portion of the trip because apparently dying in a blazing fireball was not on his list of things to do in Australia. Its not so much that I am a bad driver, its just that I spook easily, like a thoroughbred horse or a chihuahua, which can make me a tad overexcitable on the road. So frankly, up until today, I had been perfectly content to mooch rides of others, and had very little desire to experience life on the other side of the road.
That is, until Jamie offered to let me have the care so I could go grocery shopping today. The last time I went grocery shopping in our sleepy suburb of Redland Bay, I took the bus. Five months in Bundoora has made me fairly confident in my public transit abilities, and I had actually taken Queensland public transit quite a bit during Kara and my Easter Break hobo extravaganza, so I was feeling pretty good. Jamie carefully pointed out the bus stop by our house to me, and getting there proved no problem. It was the getting home that would prove difficult (foreshadowing). I reached the bus depot at the shopping centre lugging my groceries, only to realize that I had no clue which bus I had taken to get there and there were approximately five different buses I could potentially take. Did I mention at the time I didn't know our house number, town or street? Yup. I quickly called Jamie at work and ascertained that I was to take the bus to Redland Bay and get off "at the tennis courts." Groceries in tow, I staggered aboard and confidently asked the driver if he stopped at the tennis courts. "Which tennis court?" Zing. I was stumped. I was in trouble, but wilted under his stare and meekly headed back a seat, where I proceeded to drop one of my grocery bags and crawl around on the floor in pursuit of errant fruits and veggies. Order temporarily restored, I glued my nose to the window in search of familiar landmarks. FInally I spotted what I thought was a familiar field, lunged at the stop button and dragged myself and my groceries past the glaring driver only to find myself standing in a field I had never seen before. I'm ashamed to say, standing there in that strange field, carrying upwards of five bags of groceries, I began to cry, sure that I would never see Redland Bay again, much less America, and Jamie would have to spend the evening driving around calling my name out the window. Fortunately this was not to be the case, and I soon flagged down another bus, this one driven by the same kindly bus driver who had dropped me off at the shopping store. He looked on concernedly as I lurched aboard, sweaty and tear-streaked, and helpfully told me where to get off....one stop later.
So you can perhaps see why I was so eager to avoid the bus. This meant, however, driving Jamie to his brother's house at 5:30 in the morning, in the dark, and navigating home solo, all on the opposite side of the road. As with the grocery debacle, getting there was no problem, and in fact, lured me into a false sense of security. I was Ellen Lathrop, champion left-side driver. I confidently plunged down a side street that looked marginally familiar, only to realize I had no idea where I was, and even less of an idea how to get home. As I wound through street after street, with no sign of the main road, I became more and more confident that I would die wandering these side streets, and months from now, my skeleton would be found, still doggedly clutching the steering wheel. This was not to be the case, however, as I came upon some old ladies walking and yelled for assistance. These angels of mercy pointed me in the right direction and I was soon homeward bound, rolling merrily along, 10 K under the circumstances, blithely ignoring the glares of drivers passing me. Somehow, a good half hour after I should have been home, I rolled into our driveway and victoriously texted Jamie that I had only gotten lost once...ok twice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)