Just for the record - and this tip is for all you married fellows out there - it's almost never good policy to say a woman's name (besides your wife's) in your sleep. It inevitably leads to a conversation you probably don't want to have.
This happened to me. Friday night, I was cozily asleep beneath two thick blankets, probably with a dog in front of my stomach and another behind my knees. Apparently, however, it wasn't visions of sugar plums that were dancing in my head.
Saturday morning, Joyce told me what I had said, quite lucidly, between my episodes of log-sawing.
Now, it's probably good policy, if you're going to say another woman's name in your sleep, to pick one that you dislike, one that no one in the world could ever accuse you of having secret feelings for.
At least I got that part right.
According to Joyce, in my sleep, I said, "Martha Stewart's dead! What are we going to do?"
I seemed quite aggrieved, not sarcastic at all, Joyce said. I remember nothing of it.
When she told me this as we were driving to work Saturday, I could only burst out laughing. Martha Stewart? It might as well have been Leona Helmsley.
That didn't keep me from breaking into a light sweat, however. No matter how innocent you are, when you are confronted with evidence implicating you, particularly when that evidence comes from your own subconscious mind, it's natural to get nervous, I think.
I really, really do hate Martha Stewart. Really. So why was I dreaming about her? Joyce must be wondering that, too.
"I hate Martha Stewart," I told Joyce, maybe a little too loudly, just to make sure she heard me.
It was a conversation we had had before. Neither of us can tolerate anyone who worries about matching curtains and napkins.
Joyce also laughed about it, so it looks like I'm OK. We agreed there was no telling what is going on inside a human head. I made sure I brought up the sleep-talking a couple more times on the way to work, just so Joyce wouldn't think I was avoiding the subject.
The name I uttered really couldn't have been better than that of Martha Stewart, from my perspective. Not only is she snooty about linens, but she's a crooked cheater on her stocks. Martha Stewart singlehandedly brought down K-Mart, if you ask me.
If Martha Stewart and I were shipwrecked on a desert island for 30 years, my marriage vows would be entirely safe. Martha wouldn't be, though, since I probably would bash her brains in with a rock and eat her on day two, maybe before even trying to catch any fish.
I need to say a little prayer of thanks that I didn't sleep-talk about Oprah or Judge Judy. Both of them are pretty cool (and I'm saying this with strictly platonic admiration), so I think I would be in a lot of trouble.
I figure if I write an entire column about how much I hate Martha Stewart, I pretty much should be in the clear with my understanding, forgiving wife. I might mention this again next week, just to nail it down and get all this behind us once and for all.
In the meantime, I'm going to have to keep it colder in the house so I can justify covering my head with the blankets so Joyce doesn't see the duct tape over my mouth.
I probably won't be able to sleep anyway, though. I'm not going to be able to stop asking myself, what if - deep, deep down - I really do like Martha Stewart?
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.
No comments:
Post a Comment