These days, most of our travel focuses around animals as well. As I mentioned earlier, our honeymoon was spent volunteering at an elephant sanctuary in Thailand. You might be thinking, hey, doesn’t everyone want to celebrate their new life together by getting up at 6:45 a.m. and working their asses off shoveling elephant shit in 95-degree heat? But for us, it was perfect, absolutely magical. The following year, it was a monkey sanctuary in Ecuador, and then sloths in Costa Rica. We’re hoping for manatees next. I can’t wait to hear the sleep talking gems those inspire.
“Stop the cows!
They’re licking everything!”
Cows in particular come up a fair amount in Adam’s sleep talking. It’s no wonder that these animals, peaceful and unassuming as they are, would have been branded forever onto Adam’s subconscious; he spent some months of his eighteenth year tending, herding, and milking 250 of them. This was during the year Adam lived in Israel, just before university, the year we met. In between falling in love, Adam’s kibbutz kept him busy working in the dairy.
On Adam’s first day on the job, he got thrown right into the thick of it. After a cursory tour of the dairy, his new boss told him that he needed to deliver a baby calf from a cow in natal distress. “Here’s what you’ll do,” said his boss. “Stick your arm up the cow to the shoulder, and wait for further instructions. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” Adam was so eager to seize this once in a lifetime experience, and to show on his first day what a great worker he was, he figured he’d get started and be ready when the boss returned. He carefully rolled up his sleeve as high as it would go, and pinned the tail out of the way with his left hand. Then, making a little beak of his right hand, he gently inserted it into the cow’s vagina. He eased his arm in up to the shoulder, determinedly thinking of warm rice pudding all the while, and waited for his boss to come back and express his surprise and gratitude for this new young worker with such initiative. The boss came around the corner, took in the scene, and sauntered over to Adam and the cow. Adam prepared himself for the approving pat on the back that was surely coming. The boss reached up and clapped his hand on Adam’s shoulder. Shaking his head, he said, “If I knew how eager you were going to be, I would have told you to put on one of those.” Adam followed his gesture down tofind a pair of two-foot-long rubber gloves sitting at his feet.
It’s not just animals that get the benefit of STM’s consideration. We hear a lot from him about food as well. The roles that edibles play in STM’s universe bear a striking resemblance to those of animals. There’s the good:
“Chicken soup. Get down with that funky stuff. Mmmmmm.”
The bad:
“Don’t put the noodles and the dumplings together in the boat. They’ll fight! The noodles are bullies. Poor dumplings.”
Aaaaaaaaand the inappropriate:
“Well, that certainly was an interesting use for a banana. Now go wash your hands.
And burn the banana.”
And, just as we hear a good bit about cows, there are, of course, favorite foods that put in frequent appearances. Like cake.
“It’s cake o’clock! All day long.”
Adam talks in his sleep about cake an awful lot. It makes sense: Adam and I both LOVE cake, and we’re willing to go the extra mile for the ultimate cake experience. Cake is awesome! Do you think it was easy finding someone in the UK to make red velvet cupcakes for our wedding? Red velvet may be the in thing now, but no one in England had ever heard of this American southern specialty a couple of years ago. We combed the countryside in search of someone who could make these moist, delicious, shockingly hued confections. But that’s just the sort of dedication it takes to be a true cake enthusiast.
Adam’s children reap the benefits of his love of all things sweet and spongy. Every year, for each of their birthdays, Adam makes an elaborate cake in the theme of their current favorite interests. This past year, his fishing-obsessed son had a guy being towed underwater by a fishing pole, having just been pulled off a jetty by a shark. His horseback-riding daughter had a horse show ring, complete with pony and tiny hand-made jumps. Last year, they got an aircraft carrier and a rainforest scene, respectively. If ever there was proof that Adam is nothing like his alter ego, I think this little habit is it.
“It’s taken years of cake abuse to get this body into the peak of physical fitness.”
STM’s passion for cake is equalled, luckily for him, by his utter lack of regard for the “thinner is better” mantra we’re bombarded with all the time. Often, he appears to be triumphantly throwing an attempted insult right back into someone’s face:
“Me, fat? Think again, titty-fuck.
I taught my muscles to be in a zen-like state of relaxation. Permanently.”
Other times, he sounds downright proud of his extra poundage:
“They’re not love handles. No. I’ve got love impact protection barriers.”
And yet, despite his refreshing comfort with his own apparent portliness, STM doesn’t seem to have any qualms about using others’ weight as a source of insult:
“If you want me to be honest, then I have to say, your ass makes those jeans look small.”
Of course, as STM insults go, that one was nothing. STM’s passion for the put-down is unequalled and unignorable. One gets the sense that STM can muster contempt for just about anyone. And yet, I can’t help but notice that there are certain groups for which he reserves especially vitriolic disdain.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this country: our proximity to France!”
The French are one such unfortunate faction. In fact, the poor French get it from both sides, waking and sleeping: awake Adam enjoys the occasional jibe at their expense as well, which is his birthright as an Englishman: just think of Monty Python and every other English comedy ever made. In fact, I’ve noticed that disdain for the French—ironic or genuine—seems to be the norm among people from all nations around the world, except the French (who, the stereotype would have us believe, feel disdain for everyone else, so I suppose there is a sort of symmetry there).
Surprisingly, evidence demonstrates that STM is open to having his prejudices challenged by Adam’s waking experiences. When Adam and I spent two weeks volunteering at a monkey sanctuary in Ecuador, we shared a house with two fellow volunteers, both French, with whom we got on brilliantly. The walls of our little domicile were pretty thin, and I’d warned our housemates that they might hear any manner of weirdness coming from our room throughout the night. You can imagine my chagrin when, about a week in, STM loudly pronounced:
“Hmm, I like you. But you’re French.
So don’t tell anyone I said it.”
And yes, our French friends caught every bigoted syllable, as evidenced by the great guffaw I heard on the other side of the wall.
I’ll tell ya, though, the French have it easy compared to the poor vegetarians.
“Vegetarians will be the first to go.
That’s my plan. Vegans haven’t got a hope.
‘I eat air, I’m so healthy …’ Bollocks!”
No other individual or group faces quite the depth and breadth of abuse that STM bestows upon vegetarians. I have no idea where this comes from. As the cliché goes, some of our best friends are vegetarians! In fact, once upon a time, Adam himself gave vegetarianism a go. Doesn’t every lefty teenager go through that phase? It lasted until the very next time his mother served roast lamb with mint jelly.
Finally, we couldn’t possibly talk about common STM themes without considering the repeated appearances of all the typical heroes to little boys:
“You know, you can’t be a pirate
if you haven’t got a beard. I said so.
MY boat, MY rules.”
Pirates, ninjas, superheroes … these are the figures that populate STMville. I guess since Adam’s subconscious offers a playground where he can be whoever he wants, it’s no surprise that he delves back into the fantasies that grown-ups are forced to leave behind, but probably still bu
bble away quietly beneath the conscious surface.
There are so many other motifs that crop up regularly in Adam’s sleep talking—the combative nature of vegetables, the importance of good hygiene, the Jesus debate (son of God, or the first zombie?)—but I think I’ll stop here and leave you to discover them for yourself.
THE BODY BEAUTIFUL
8 “I haven’t put on weight. Your eyes are fat.”
7 “My ass and my personality are the same thing. Huge and in your face.”
6 “Right, like I joined to get fit. I joined for the mirrors!”
5 “I’m not fat. It’s just my awesomeness swelling up inside me.”
4 “I’ve got muscles. They’re just sleeping. Don’t wake them. Let them sleep.”
3 “Yeah, I’m shapely. I’m a great big gorgeous shape and loving it.”
2 “It’s not sweat. It’s my aura glistening.”
1 “Well, so what if you call me fat. I’ll forget you even exist the next time I see a doughnut.”
Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man
One night, I awoke to the cries of my hungry one-year-old daughter. That was a nightly occurrence at the time and, as usual, I woke my husband Eric and asked him to go get her for me so that I could nurse her. It took a few tries to get him up, and by then, the baby was screaming loudly. Eric left the room and was gone for a really long time. All the while, the baby was still screaming, and I started to wonder what he could possibly be doing. After a good five minutes, he finally returned to the bedroom, but instead of the baby (STILL wailing in the nursery), he was carrying a winter coat. He handed it to me and said, “I remembered the coat, but I forgot the other thing.”
Melanie M.
Washington, D.C.
Ninjas in stilettos. Fashion assassains!
Not so stealthy but oh so stylish.
“You can’t drop them. You can’t set
them on fire. You can’t feed them to crocodiles.
You can’t let them play with fireworks.
I mean … kids: what the fuck?!”
I met Adam’s children during my first visit to Adam in London, just three weeks into our rekindled relationship. Adam’s son was seven, his daughter four, and from that very first day, they were wonderful with me. They are delightful, funny, easy-going kids, but also, I think that seeing their dad happy (which they hadn’t seen much of lately) was all it took for them to immediately accept me as part of their family. Since then, it has been smooth sailing all along.
Adam’s children get nearly as much pleasure out of STM as I do. We don’t let them actually read or hear most of it for themselves, mind you. After all, they are only eight and eleven years old, and we do have some respect for age-appropriateness. But, of course, they know about their dad’s funny little habit, so most mornings when they stay over they come bounding in, asking “What did Daddy say last night?” and I feed them a sanitized version, replacing “bum” for “ass” and “jerk” for “motherfucker.” And let me tell you, it sometimes requires a fair bit of creativity to take STM’s latest and greatest and translate it into something that’s palatable to youthful sensibilities (and won’t scar them for life). Other times, there’s no sanitation in the world that will render something shareable with young ears: “How can I tell you you’re as welcome as a twenty-eight-day-old used tampon infested by maggots without offending you?” just doesn’t have a G-rated version.
Of course, some quotes are kid-suitable, and we happily let the children listen to those for themselves. The lengthy, wacky animal ones go down especially well. Here’s the kind of thing they go crazy for:
“Hey, look at me! I just made bumble bee pajamas. They’re so cuuuute, with their little leg holes. This one’s bright fuchsia with some black spots. I think that’s my favorite. And this one’s got a night cap that fits right over the antennae … WING HOLES! I forgot to put wing holes! Oh, well.
‘… and all the honey was oozy woozy, sticky and gooey, but it tasted good.’
Awww. Bed time story for tired little bumble bee. Go to sleep, bee.”
It’s a blast to watch their faces go from eyebrow-knitted puzzlement to wide-mouth amazement to unbridled glee. Kids haven’t yet learned the regrettable skill of moderating their reactions, and it’s such a pleasure to see it all hang out like that.
As delightful as it is to play this stuff for the kids, it still comes second to my marathon STM-sharing sessions with my brother. Running his own theatre company on top of a full-time job chairing the arts department at a private high school keeps Jason frantically busy, and he doesn’t have much time to peruse the Net for sheer pleasure. When we Skype, we often get on the blog together and go through all the entries that he has missed. As we make our way through the quotes, he throws his head back and howls, his body contorts with laughter, he drops his forehead to the desk and pounds it with his palm. I’ve even seen the occasional tears of glee. It’s embarrassingly gratifying to be the bearer of such merriment to my big brother.
It happens that Jason’s young high school students have also discovered Sleep Talkin’ Man. Many a time he has arrived at a drama club meeting to find the kids doing dramatic readings of STM’s latest zingers. There he is, sitting with these fifteen-year-olds whose impressionable minds he is tasked with helping to shape, as they proclaim:
“It’s the soup!
It tastes like rancid cock butter!”
He knows he’s supposed to stop them, but all he wants is to cackle along. And it can’t help that they all know that it’s come to them care of his little sister. AWKwaaard!
Speaking of awkward, try sitting next to your mom as she listens to a recording of your husband saying:
“From now on, papaya shall be known as cunt fruit. Nasty cunt fruit. Mushy and smelly cunt fruit. You don’t like the word, don’t make me say it again.”
My mother—a woman more likely to exclaim “fiddlesticks!” than its four-letter counterpart—is surprisingly enthusiastic about Sleep Talkin’ Man, particularly when you consider that it involves hearing all manner of obscenity from the man who married her daughter. What a sport.
Heaven for a depressed masochist is an ice cream headache.
Ladies and gentlemen, please remember to put your oxygen mask on first, followed by your favorite child.
Oh, I could be rummaging around in here for ages, I’m never going to find some zebra ears!
Ugh, I know you. You’re alwayson the corner of Fuck-off and Cunt-bag.
I’m so sorry about the Pop-Tarts.
It really should never have happened.
I want to dance in the rain but without the getting wet bit.
Just put the fucking cow’s head on the pavement and walk away. Leave it alone, stop playing with it. It’s just a head.
Ooooh, it’s got it’s eyeballs in still.
Hey, who put my elbows on backwards?!
That’s not fucking funny!
Right. I’ve had enough.
I’m splitting you two up.
You over there and you are going all the way over there. I tell you, you’ve got to be really fucking quick and hard on these chinchillas.
Take no prisoners.
Don’t judge me.
Anybody can fall in love with semolina.
Stop throwing mangoes.
You’re going to take somebody’s eye out, or worse!
Put Mr. Squidly down!
How DARE you try and milk him! Come on, Mr. Squidly. Let me put you back in your tank. Aw, it’s okay. Why don’t you hug my arm. Yeah, use all your little tentacles.
There there. Everything’s gonna be okay.
He’s only a douche.
Listen, it’s not as if I put ear wax on my penis and shouted ’snake warts!’
OK?
Yeah, OK, you’re sorry. You’re French, you’ve got to be fucking sorry!
Mange tout twat.
I can’t believe you went to pick up a turkey without introducing yourself first.
Ho
w rude of you. How presumptuous.
A turkey has its own mind. Be kind.
Seriously, I can open my mind and empty it of everything and still do menial tasks. Picture that.
I am the perfect husband.
Sure you’re beautiful.
But when you crap you smell like every other asshole.
Leave my gnomes alone. They’re MY gnomes, living in MY house, doing MY gardening, and they’re happy. Look at their fucking smiley faces. Can’t you see how frickin’ happy they are? Who are you to judge me?! Go on, gnome, cut the grass.
Good gnome. Good gnome.
Stupid fucking fizzy fish. Never liked them.
Have some of that, you sugar-coated cunts.
If you’re looking for sympathy, go get a fucking dictionary.
You’ll find it between ’shithead’ and ’syphilis’.
It’s your hair. I’d like to see it on your head, not on the side of the fucking bath like a dead mouse.
You find me attractive?
Well, congratulations. You’ve now joined the rest of society.
No, don’t laugh at my goose.
Come on, goose. Oh, this is going to cost me a fortune in therapists.
The ravioli’s plotting something.
Always hiding his agenda. Stick with fusilli.
Really trustworthy.
Okay everybody. It’s time for some whale song. Get ready: mmMMMMMMMMmmmm, MMMMmmmmm, mmmMMMMMMmmm, MMmmmMMMMMmm…. Oh, I’m filled with so much humpback happiness right now.
Sleep Talkin' Man Page 6
