I, having never been in this situation, was feeling extremely shy, and had taken to hiding in the house. Adam and I had never discussed what was supposed to happen after he asked, and I had no intention of going back out and risk interrupting the manly heart-to-heart that I assumed must define such occasions.
To their credit, they stuck it out until not a crumb of bagel was left in the bag. They gazed a few moments longer across the expanse of bagel lumps until Dad said, “Hmmm. I guess she’s not coming back.” And they trudged back up to the house.
Next, we drove up to my mom’s in central Jersey. Again, we gave it about two meals’ worth of getting-to-know-you time before Adam brought up our future plans. Luckily, two meals gets you surprisingly far in getting to know my mom. She’s immediately familiar and welcoming, the kind of parent that all of her teenage kids’ friends called “Mom.” Even so, it’s nerve wracking to put in a request for marriage on first meeting with any parent. Sunday afternoon rolled around, and Adam knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. My mother was rushing around the kitchen, cooking for a dinner party. It wasn’t ideal, but Adam feared it would be his last opportunity to catch her alone. I was waiting just around the corner from the kitchen, out of immediate sight, but within earshot. Adam, in his awkwardness, expressed his intentions in ridiculously posh, outdated terms. Something like, “Patti, I’m sure that you’ve become aware of my intentions toward your daughter, and I would like your permission to have her hand in marriage.” It must have sounded fantastically British to my mother, like something out of a Jane Austen novel. She paused in her chopping, the knife hovering above the carrots. “Are you planning to treat her wonderfully and make her happy?” she asked. “Umm … yes? I am,” Adam awkwardly affirmed. “Oh,” she said, “well then, she’s all yours.” They shared a nice welcome-to-the-family hug—although, she still had the knife in her hand, so I guess it could have gone either way. As Mom returned to her chopping and Adam came around the corner from the kitchen, I saw him do a Rocky Balboa over-the-head double fist pump of triumph.
Two down; one to go.
In hindsight I can appreciate that I made an error with my brother. With my mom and dad, I waited until they met Adam before there was any whisper of marriage. Adam is totally guileless and (in my totally unbiased opinion) utterly loveable, and anyone who saw us together instinctively knew that we belonged together. But in my brother’s case, I just called and told him that I was engaged. His lukewarm, skeptical reaction was not all that I would have hoped for.
Put yourself in Jason’s place. Your sister tells you that she is going to marry a foreigner who only six weeks ago she saw for the first time since having her heart broken by him a decade and a half before. Add to this that you generally believe this sister to be impulsive and not always possessing perfect judgment, on top of which you’re an emotionally cautious kind of guy to begin with. You can imagine, then, that Jason was a little suspicious. I believe that, in short, my brother figured this was a guy gunning for a green card. “I’m sorry I can’t respond with the hoots of congratulations that you were probably hoping for,” he said. “That’s OK,” I replied, “you should respond however you feel.” I was confident, you see, that he would thaw the moment he met Adam.
So, parents covered, I took Adam up to Boston. On our second night, we were out at a pool hall when my brother tricked me into giving him some man-to-man time with Adam. “Tamar wants to talk to you about something,” he said, handing me his cell phone with his girlfriend on the other end. I took it across the room, where I could hear better. A theatre director, Jason always knows how to inject just the right amount of drama to communicate his point effectively to his audience: He bent down, aimed carefully, took his shot, righted himself, planted the end of his cue firmly on the ground, and pinned Adam with an accusatory gaze. “So,” he said evenly, “What is it that you want from my sister?”
The content of what followed is known only to Adam and Jason, but Adam must have given a convincing answer, because by the end of the weekend, they were delighted with each other. A year and a half later, it was Jason who officiated our wedding with that same sense of dramatic, but this time it was suffused with joy and love.
Of course, at this point, none of us had met STM.
Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man
I’m not just a sleep talker; I’m a sleep doer. Many a morning I’ve woken up to find my roommates snickering into their coffee, tears running down their faces, all too willing to regale me with stories of the crazy things I said or did the night before. I’m apparently a fount of information in my sleep. For example, I knocked on a roommate’s door the other night and when she answered it (knowing full well who’d be on the other side) I informed her that “only the male crickets creak.” I’m sure that trivia will come in handy some day.
Once, I tried selling Girl Scout cookies door to door down the hallway and apparently got frustrated when no one appeared to be home at the bathroom door. I yelled, “Fine, fartknocker, I’ll just cheek you sideways then!” and stomped back to bed.
My sleepwalking habits can especially be a problem when we have unsuspecting overnight visitors. One time, my roommate’s parents were visiting. Apparently, I marched into the living room where they were soundly asleep on the air mattress, jumped on the couch, pointed to the door, and proclaimed (in a crackling witchy voice), “The Gate, The Gate! Don’t go beyond the Gate! That way lies madness (then in a deep voice) AND CERTAIN DEATH.” Then I “doom doom doooooomed” and stomped back to bed. I swear I don’t remember a thing!
Shawna S.
Sunland, CA
Hey logic, you can suck my balls.
I wanna do some shouting.
Look at the size of your bath.
I can pee in it and you’d never notice.
Why must I choose? Dog or fish.
Dog or fish…. Fish … ARGH, I get it wrong every time!
Damn it, I’m gonna be late. I’ve run out of nipple glue! Always at the worst times.
Methinks it’s time to go naked native.
It’s a shower cap and singlet for me.
Oh, put the phone down…. No, you put it down first … No, you…. Just put the ass-rimming pig-fucking mother-shit fuck phone down! Jeeesuuuusssss!
Gaffer tape.
Oh, it’s such sexy sticky stuff.
Rip and stick, rip and stick. Ooooh.
Look at me. That’s what I call rapture.
Who needs the fucking end of the world?
Judgment day, my ass.
You have the genetic disposition of a dipshit. It’s quite simple to trace back.
One of your ancestors must have risen to the highest rank of codpiece.
Stupid fucking wanker.
The little people are taking over!
Better break out that secret stash of rainbow pencils.
That’ll keep them busy for a while.
The zero is the same. It always will be. It never changes. Zero is zero…. One? Huh, he’s just a lonely cunt.
If I can’t have legs, none of you can have legs. Simple as that.
I can juggle babies. It’s the baby juggle!
It’s just so tricky when they’re on fire.
One up, two … oops! I need another baby.
Another baby!
GYM: nothing more than Goddamn Yucky Masochism.
I don’t wanna go down the slide.
It’s too high. Far too high.
Wheeeeeeeeeeee! … I feel sick now.
It’s not about believing or not believing in God. No, no, no.
It’s about not giving a crap.
Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew.
I’m gonna kick you so hard, your nuts are gonna look like Christmas balls. Now give me back my wings!
And the tiara.
I’ll have you, Blackbeard. And then I’ll have your beard. Mmmm, I love stealing beards.
Be the Pirate Beard of the Bearded Sea.
Arrrgggh. A
nd all of you follicly challenged people can be on MY crew. And everyone with beards will quake with fear!
OK: Jump position! Goddamn it, why do the jellyfish always get it wrong?
“Oh, I’ve got my own built-in parachute.”
So fucking what, get the basics right, dickhead. Otherwise, you’re out of the free-form team. Bastards.
Of course I’m wearing my thunder pants.
It’s Thursday. Friday is frilly pants day.
Don’t forget!
I’m not angry with you. I’m just pissed off you were classed as a viable embryo.
Tell me, what are vampires wearing this season? Anyone? Anyone?!
I know I said I love you, but I love me more. Accept your position in my life.
Stupid-fucking-cunty-bollocks-expialidocious
Oh, hamsters don’t give love like guinea pigs. No, no. Guinea pigs are a love package, all wrapped up in little squeaks.
I’ve got a new show, and you’re gonna be the star. It’s called, “People I Like to Throw Under the Bus.”
I call this cake Death By Icing.
Ninjas, they’re just pussies in pajamas. Samurais, now that’s where it’s at.
They’re the fucking bollocks.
This is a totally sparkly tiara moment!
“Now it’s time to suspend reality … from its fucking neck.”
“Just imagine,” I often think to myself excitedly, “what Adam would be capable of if he could summon STM at will. WOW!” Other times, I think, “Just imagine what Adam would be capable of if he could summon STM at will. UGH!” In a sense, STM demonstrates the extreme best and worst that Adam has to offer. He’s Adam at his most clever and creative, and he’s Adam at his most narcissistic and unscrupulous. Both of these extremes, I think, can be explained by the same phenomenon: lack of inhibition.
Because, really, that’s all STM is: what remains, or is allowed to emerge, when all of the inhibitions that govern so many of our behaviors are stripped away. First of all, you get purely unfettered creativity. With no fear of failure, no concern for consequences, no judgmental internal editor, the mind is free to fly and allow for the best of itself.
But let’s not forget, inhibitions do us at least as much good as harm. Sympathy, empathy, and morality—in short, our conscience—act as inhibitors against an entire focus on the self. STM is all about me me me. He takes what he wants, does what he wants, says what he wants, with no limitations imposed by the consideration of others. Such freedom allows for a capacity for cruelty that would make most of us shudder.
And this seems to bring us full circle. Who else do you think of when I say “unfettered creativity, self-absorption, capacity for cruelty”? Yes, children! Here we are, back at the theory that STM is basically a child, with an adult’s vocabulary and knowledge of the world.
I can’t help but wonder what sort of world we would live in if everyone’s inhibitions were stripped away. Imagine our entire global society made up of STMs. Would we be so much more scientifically, technologically, artistically, culturally advanced than we are now? Or, would we each be so busy wallowing in our own awesomeness and joyfully delivering cutting put-downs that we wouldn’t have gotten around to inventing the wheel?
TOP TEN
STM Insults
10 “It’s easy to confuse your ass and your face. They’re basically a hole that spews shit.”
9 “It’s amazing how you can smell so bad, but still be alive.”
8 “Why don’t you stand in fuck up corner. You can stay there ’til, I don’t know, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you ’o clock.”
7 “I’d rather be afflicted with permanently infected hairy ass grapes than be subjected to another minute of your drivel.”
6 “Listen to you? I’d rather listen to the sound of me sucking out the juices of a corpse through its anal sphincter.”
5 “Scientists in the future will completely struggle to work out how you were ever classified as an intelligent life form.”
4 “You know, I really think you should audition for Britain’s Got Talent … at being a cunt. You’re a shoo-in for a winner.”
3 “Watching you think is like watching a cat shovel shit with two broken paws. Painful, but I just can’t stop watching.”
2 “You, sir, are the used sock on a teenager’s floor. Nothing more.”
1 “I’m sure you’ll be thrilled and ecstatic at the thought of going out with me. But look at it from my point of view: Leeches attached to my testicles and a mass of flesh-eating caterpillars and ants over the rest of my body, gorging themselves on my flesh. A slow and ultimately painful death. So I hope you can see my point of view. It’ll be a no to going out with you. Now run along and poison somebody else’s life.”
Harder is NOT a good safe word.
“That’s the problem with the food cupboard. There’s too many places for zombies to hide.”
ME: You said, “The problem with the food cupboard is there’s too many places for zombies to hide.”:
ADAM: No offense to STM, but zombies aren’t clever at hide and seek.:
ME: Hmmm, that’s true.:
ADAM: They like to surprise, but they can’t because they’ve got their arms stretched out. It ruins all the hiding places. They go behind a door, but their arms are stretched out, so the door can’t close. They go behind a curtain, but you see the lump of the arms. Plus the fact they’re always groaning about brains, so they can’t be quiet. They could be under the bed, and you just walk in the room and all you can hear is, “braaaaaaaiiiiins.” It’s like, “Found you!”
Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man
It’s around two a.m. and suddenly I am wide awake (or so I think). I sit up quickly, squint my eyes to see where I am, and then start walking around the room picking things up and examining them. Then I turn to my partner and, holding up an object for him to see, say, “Look at this, we have exactly the same one at home!” He tells me to get back in bed, that I’m sleepwalking, but I ignore him. “No, REALLY, look at this, they have all the same shit that we do … and they put it in exactly the same places!”
Matt C.
Warwick, RI
“I got to make myself some gin. Lots and lots of gin. Gin helps … everything.”
One might think that alcohol would bring out the STM in Adam. Both states—asleep and inebriated—are times when people tend to be free of inhibitions, so it would be logical to assume that the same subconscious personality might emerge in Adam during each. Not so. Drunk Adam is cheerful, soppy, and downright adorable.
As I’ve mentioned, a side perk of having a recorder going every night is that I occasionally catch stuff other than sleep talking, such as Adam on an inebriated roll. Here is an excerpt from a typical Drunk Adam monologue, in which I was already in bed and he’s just come back late from an evening out with new clients. You’ll need to imagine this in an English accent with wild swings of modulation and volume:
“I have been told by somebody I have met FOUR OR FIVE HOURS AGO what a wonderful amazing woman I married.” (I ask, “Well, how would they know?”) “Because I TALKED about you FOR HOURS! I TOLD them how you make me FEEL, what you DO for me, how amazing you are with OTHER PEOPLE, and ANIMALS, and you’re just YAAAAAY! … And, ummm … what was I talking about? …”
And so on, for the next twenty minutes. This is a pretty good representation of almost every conversation we have on the rare occasions when Adam is drunk.
And yet, there may very well be a germ of commonality between STM and Drunk Adam. Case in point:
Gin, so extolled in the quote above, played a noteworthy role in our wedding. It was the night before the big event. The last of our out-of-town guests had drifted off to their hotel rooms, I’d sequestered myself with my matron of honor to paint my nails and do other pre-wedding girlie things, and as the midnight hour struck, Adam had the sudden nausea-inducing realization that he had not given a moment’s thought to his speech for the big day. He dashed to his room and grabbed some
hotel stationery and pens, and went in search of a bright comfortable place to work. Ah, the hotel bar, perfect! Before he knew it, the friendly bartender had placed before the groom-to-be a nice fresh gin and tonic, on the house. This turned out to be the first of many free-of-charge G & T’s the bartender would bestow unto Adam that night. Getting himself steadily sloshed, Adam delved, he delved deep, for the perfect words with which he would convey to all of our loved ones the overwhelming joy and passion in his heart on this most meaningful of days. And thus he began writing his wedding speech in the only writing implements he had been able to dig up, his five-year-old daughter’s coloring markers. Bolstered by gin—and the ability to change hue every time he needed fresh inspiration—Adam composed the most touching, most hilarious, most goddamn kick-ass speech I have heard at a wedding, ever. Segueing seamlessly between heartfelt displays of emotion and parody of his loved ones (his opening, for example, is a reference to my well known, over developed passion for organization; my wedding planning spreadsheet was a fourteen-tabbed display of shock and awe), he had everyone gasping with laughter, and crying into their napkins. It went, in part:
Having lived with Karen, it is impossible not to pick up on her many intense and infectious traits. For me in this moment, it would be, most notably, the spreadsheet. At first viewed with dim regard as the tool of necessity for the gray accountant, I have since been known to stare in awe at the filtering of data, the formation of formulas, and the ebb and flow of our ever-mutating to-do list. And so it came to pass that my speech was born in a spreadsheet.
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