Some people are sleep walkers, but I’m a sleep talker. I’m also a sleep laugher. I laugh a LOT in my sleep, and it terrifies some (while amuses others – more on this later!) My husband knows to stay on his toes, because I sometimes say some wild stuff with zero recollection of it the next day. I often find him still wide-eyed on the couch after one of our nocturnal encounters, and I promptly deny accountability and remind him of his dramatic side. “You say I’m the theater kid? You should prepare your 16 bars, because you’re the one being theatrical!” He gets a kick every time (but I also believe he really does sleep with one eye open).  

Hey, after 27 years together, you do what you have to do to keep things fresh!

Recently, I began speaking some gobbledygook during my slumber, and when he looked at me with his ever-familiar “wait…what?” look, I told him he was just jealous because he ‘wasn’t as great a rapper as me.’ I am NOT a rapper, nor is he (though I do kill it on Shoop at karaoke. I’m just saying). Whatever I do say is never threatening or harmful, it’s just…bizarre. To the point I wonder what actually goes on in my head while I’m snoozing.

I know our brains work a lot of things out while we sleep via dreams – we confront dormant demons, process our trauma, or simply incorporate the shows we watch as we lay down to rest (I don’t know about anyone else, but TV is my best friend and lifelong security blanket, and always has been. (Sorry, Lori!) and I need it to survive. JK. Lori has known since we were 13 that she’s number two next to TV, and she accepts it with grace. She even lets me sleep in the master bedroom when I stay at her house, because it has a TV. She gets me. I return the favor by sauntering about in my Mrs. Roper kaftans, and never-ending praise of her cooking, which is truly fabulous, and introducing her to new reality TV trash, which lifts both of our spirits about how good our lives really are!) But boy, I really know how to bring it.

All of this started very early, though I couldn’t recall the details if I tried. Rather; they are (and always were) relayed to me by the often-confused (and newly-cautious) people and/or bedfellows whom I’ve said things to while asleep. When I was eight-years-old, and my dad and brother were at Tahquitz, my mom and I were enjoying a quiet night watching Family Ties before my bedtime. When the show ended, she directed me to my room (that I was always afraid of), turned off my light (which I’m still afraid of), and wished me a good night’s sleep (which perpetually eluded me until around the age of 40 – eh, who am I kidding? I still have issues with sleep, they’re just less sucky these days).

Our house in Lakewood (where we lived until I was nine) had a HUGE kitchen. It felt like the majority of the house was kitchen. It could also be that I was very little and it seemed much bigger than it actually was because in reality, the house was just around 1,600 square feet, which at the time, was considered ‘modest.’ We moved up and up several times, with our final home in California being around 3x that. And trust me, I’m not trying to diminish the size of any house (and there were much bigger ones to be had in that area)! Hell, mine today barely clears 1,200 square feet! I think part of the reason I chose to downsize as an adult was because I learned right quick that bigger houses don’t bring you more joy or make anyone in them happier if there’s already strife. I remember saying out loud, many a time, “I would be happy to live in a cardboard box if you were just nice to me.” And that was the truth. Plus, with all that extra space, there’s just more to clean. My husband delights when we’ll be watching a movie or show that features some huge house, and my first reaction is, “Do you know how long it would take to CLEAN that place? There is SO MUCH GLASS!”

The house also had a sizable family room, which is where our TV, couch, and chairs were set. The carpet in the family room, as I was told, is why my parents bought the house, but to me, it looked like someone had a bad experience with pizza and let it be known. All over the place. It was this red, plaid-ish, brown-black combo that just kind of…existed together. For me, it was too loud, but what did I know? I was sure I’d marry Kenny Rogers and live a life of ‘celebrity wife’ at the time.

Anyway, after resigning to my bed with the cool, yellow, Peanuts-adorned canopy, I emerged in my favorite nightgown, hands clenched, stormed through the kitchen, and slowly made my way to the family room with a very stern look on my face. Clearly, I had something to get off my chest. According to my mother, it was only around 9pm, but she still proceeded to engage me with caution. I guess because I’d done this before?

Though I don’t remember the incident itself, I will forever remember the feel of that kitchen floor. It was Spanish tile, it was cold, and you could feel the groove of each inlay on the arch of your foot as you meandered your way about the house. Looking back, it was gorgeous! My mother had an eye for decorating that I did not inherit. Our homes were always beautifully bedecked with the newest design trend (that she somehow knew about six months prior). She literally got her real estate license for shits and gigs so that we could spend our weekends checking out open house homes in order to get design ideas. I don’t think she ever sold a house, nor had any desire to.

My mother-in-law has that same gift, and I often tell her how much I need her because I lack any bit of taste. I like nice things, and I do enjoy a magnificent appliance or piece of furniture, but ornamenting anything has never been my thing. Maybe because I was never allowed to? Who knows…I just know I’ve never excelled with it, and really don’t give much thought to it. Trish the Dish (my MIL) can make ANY room look like a 5-star resort with five bucks and a paintbrush. She’s remarkable.

I walked through the kitchen to the family room, where some ‘grown-up TV’ like Hill Street Blues was likely playing, confronted my mother, and said, firmly, “I CAN’T GET THE CLOSET DOORS OPEN.” She responded, “Why do you need to get the closet doors open?”

I said, “To GET THE SHOES! WHY ELSE?”

(I don’t even like shoes! My brother and I were raised on our parents’ belief that shoes inhibited healthy arch development. They believed we should be barefoot and walking on grass as often as possible. Not gonna lie, I’ve got GREAT arches and would still rather be barefoot most of the time).

Then I turned around, stomped back to my room, got in my super-sweet Peanuts bed, and went back to sleep.

I have no recollection of this.

I used to accuse my friends, parents, and brother of lying about my sleep-talking and claim they were just trying to rile me up (which was easy to do!)

They weren’t.

My brother and BFF used to record me on the RCA VHS camcorder (after insisting it was time for bed) and there are incriminating videos somewhere out there of me accusing Joan Collins of being at McDonald’s and my mascara running and no one telling me. But we’re not here to talk about that, and I admit to nothing.

Like junk food, rest/sleep was a bit of a no-no in our house growing up, too. While my mother was allowed to lay abed day after day, my brother and I were not allowed to sleep past 6am, even on the weekends. Should we, our dad would find some way to make a whole lot of noise, then remind us what a beautiful day it was outside, and how we were wasting it. Any of my childhood friends would tell you that my dad would start microwaving the mackerel he’d caught days prior for the cats around dawn, while also turning on the kitchen sink water (as we were camped in the family room in full earshot) a million and one times, then playing dumb when it woke us.

To this day, I apologize when someone wakes me for having been asleep in the first place (and still get terribly offended when accused of being asleep), then my husband reminds me that it’s okay if I nap, sleep in, or wake early, so long as I got the rest I needed (which wasn’t the case with young kids! I guess my childhood trained me for being a young mom…I could go DAYS on a few hours sleep and still have a great time with them!) I’m still not sure I believe him but I’m getting there.

Because I don’t know if you know this, but…good sleep is GORGEOUS.

So, on this particular night, my husband was outside, grilling up some burgers. It was summertime, and in our state, it stays super light out during the summer months. We generally (and now, more frequently) tend to eat fairly early. Dinner at 7pm? What are we, aristocrats?  We’d rather eat early, go to bed early, and rise with the sun.

But summertime is different. The air is so fresh and the fireflies are so bright and our backyard is just so lovely. I LOVE to feed people, and will buy enough food for an army any time we’re having a BBQ (or any other such event), because I love to fill tummies. Part of my love language includes acts of service. I want the people I cherish to know how grateful I am for them, and filling their bellies with good food and drink is just one small way I can accomplish that. I love to cook, and there’s little better than sharing a meal with the people you love the most.

On this night, it was just us and the kids. We didn’t have any people over, and my WORD, he cooked so late! All three kids were in their teens, probably already ate, and likely had later-night plans. Good for them! I, however, was very hungry and also, very tired. It had been a long week, and I was spent.

I had put together the necessary accoutrements, prepped the corn-on-the-cob, and readied the potatoes (I am of Irish descent, and you will have to take my potatoes out of my cold, dead hands. I love them. Any kind. Prepared ANY way. With EVERYTHING. You could give me a potato casserole, and I’d still ask for a side of potatoes. Seriously). I swear to you, my husband will say, “She’s not lying about the potatoes.”

It had to be around 10pm when he was finally done cooking, and I was long asleep. Burgers at 10 pm? What kind of crazy is this?

As I was snoozing (and likely forming my sleep-talk response), he came into our room to eat his dinner next to me. I could smell it, and I was famished. I lifted my head, looked him square in the eye as he was noshing, and said, “Give me the top of that taco.” Here’s how it went from there:

Him: “Honey, I didn’t make tacos.”

Me: “You KNOW what I mean.”

Him: “No, I actually don’t. I made burgers, not tacos, that you requested and fell asleep before they were done.”

Me: “WHAT-EVER. Top of that taco and you won’t even give it to me. RUDE!”

‘Top of That Taco’ was one of the names we threw around for the Tiki Bar in our backyard (which is tiny. And is currently mostly a storage den for random patio chairs and my husband’s various side project leftovers, but we’ll get back to it. Because as a Tiki bar, it was TOIGHT!) Instead, we landed on ‘The Bone Zone,’ (with a big thanks to Jon Glaser). *If you’ve never seen Delocated, go find it immediately on wherever it may be streaming, watch it, and thank me after*

There is a reason we have been together for so long. I think I delight him by being so…unpredictable? He definitely likes telling me the wacky stuff I say to him the night before. If only I told him how delighted I am by his melodramatic gasps, stares, and pearl clutching any time he’s disturbed during his sleep.

This is mostly all to say, stay on your toes, accept the people you love for exactly who they are, and understand you will never be as good a rapper as me.

And also, obviously, when I ask as politely as I did then, GIVE ME THE TOP OF THAT TACO!