Talking About That Little Lady

Stepping into the wayback machine, I recall a trip I took with my parents when I was twenty-one.

It was their birthday present to me, a trip to Las Vegas (all of us kids got such a trip when we became of legal age.)

While there, we paid a visit to my aunt and uncle who live in a small town outside of Las Vegas.

My grandmother was staying with the aunt and uncle, so it was a smallish family reunion.

As we all bedded down for the night, being the youngest, I took up my place on the pull out bed in the living room. This gave me a ringside seat for the show that lay ahead.

In less than 20 minutes, I began to hear the distinct sound of my grandmother snoring. Oh, she was a world-class snorer.

Soon enough, I could also hear the recognizable sound of my dad sawing up some logs.

Mom joined him quickly, singing harmony in this snore chorus.

From the other direction of the house came sound new to me, but easy to identify. My uncle, also snoring. More quietly but surely there, my model beautiful aunt also found her nasal instrument.

Great. Five adults, all sawing the logs. I didn’t get much sleep that night.

I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t become a snorer, no matter how much age and genetic heritage may dictate it would be so.

Plus, I am a very light sleeper, I reasoned, so I’d wake myself up if I started down the road of my destiny.

A good plan. That hasn’t really worked.

Time passed, as it will, and wouldn’t you know it, my nose and soft palette have found their tuning. I’ve managed to become a snorer.

Not massively so, as attested to by The Good Man, but yes, I do snore.

And yes, I do usually manage to wake myself up when I do.

Like, oh, about half hour ago when for some reason a sound much akin to an angry hippo issued from my nostrils.


Ladies don’t snore! They don’t! Damnit! I’m a lady!

Ladies also don’t sweat, so I am unable to account for the pool of moisture around my neck upon waking up this morning.


A couple years ago, The Good Man and I joined another couple for dinner and drinks at one of the yacht clubs in San Francisco. The Good Man’s best friend is a member.

After a fine meal, the four of us retired to the bar where, with drinks in hand, we engaged in a rousing game of liar’s dice.

Well, just as things get rolling, as it were, an Admiral of the club, a huffing old Caucasian man with a bulbous nose and wearing a rumpled navy blue jacket bustled over to us. He leaned over the bar and blurted, “Ladies do NOT shake dice in bars!”

harrumph harrumph

Remember when you were a kid in the front seat when your mom was driving? When she would hit the brakes, that strong mom arm would come out to protectively keep you from flying through the windshield?

The Good Man and his best friend did something akin to that, keeping both of their lovely wives from rocketing up off of their bar stools and becoming real unladylike in a hurry.

So let’s see…let’s recount my offenses. Shaking dice in a bar. Sweating. Snoring.

Oh fine. When the old definitions don’t fit anymore, it’s time to edit the dictionary!

A lady can indeed shake dice in a bar! And also, I suppose, snore. Ladies can also drink whiskey, shout at sporting matches, drive too fast, belch, curse and gamble.

There. That oughta cover me.

At least for this week, anyway.

:cue Tom Jones:

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