Yesterday when Sed and I woke up, she asked if I remembered asking if it was tender when she got home the previous night.

"And I was like, 'Is what tender?' And you said, 'Your bike.'"

I've been a sleep-talker for as long as I can remember. My brother still quakes with horror recalling all the times he had to practically smother me to get me to shut up with the running color commentary about playing basketball one-on-six in my underwear. But these days it generally only manifests itself when people try to talk to me while I'm asleep.

However, as I married someone who can only be described with invented words as the morningest person on Planet Earth, this happens more often than not. And she still doesn't quite get it. She'll be getting ready for work, chatting away happily, not realizing that even though I'm responding it doesn't mean that I actually comprehend what's being said to me. And here's the best part about a Y chromosome: when the topic comes up again, I get in trouble for not having retained the knowledge.

"Don't forget we're having dinner with Trent and Hillary tonight." (We know no such people, but play along.)

"Um ... now that I've been told the first time, I should be able to not forget."

"What are you talking about? I told you last week, and again yesterday."

"Sweetie, was I perchance in a horizontal position with my eyes closed when you informed me of such developments? Also, were my responses indistinct mutterings devoid of vowels?"

And then she recoils. "Excuse me? You said perfectly clearly that you wanted to see their new apartment, and that you hoped Hillary made her famous collard greens."

Crap. I'd forgotten about that tendency of mine to enunciate while comatose. But even so, it could be -- and once was -- much worse. My mom likes to tell a story from when I was five or six, about how I toddled out to the kitchen early one morning and talked to her while she ate breakfast. She had no clue that I wasn't fully aware and lucid until I turned down the hall, then looked back and said, "Mom?"

"Yes, punkin?" (She called me punkin; you know, moms.)

"I put black net on the hats." And with this shocking revelation I returned to the comfort of my bed.

You read it right -- I used to seek people out in order to babble incoherently from a REM state. This meant nobody ever knew if I was really there, especially first thing in the morning, but on the bright side I couldn't be held accountable for things said so early. Plus I could spout nonsense without retribution. You may wonder if I'm sleep-typing this right now. I can assure you that if I were, albatrosses don't like peanut butter when they sneeze.

Sed and I have only been living together for about as long as it took my mom to fully get it herself. Now that my wife's working an evening shift for the first time in our relationship, she's starting to see it happen on the front side, too. As such, she mostly understands that I can't be trusted to retain pre-7 am conversations. My mouth might acquiesce, but as far as my feeble brain is concerned, they didn't exist.

Speaking of which, I'm still not sure whether her bike is tender. It better be, because my oven isn't big enough to braise the sucker.

Per ICANN, the ESRB, the Geneva Convention, and the Federation To Buy Al Gore A Bigger House, one's first blog post must be frivolous and unimportant. But I can't think of anything more important than sitting in front of my computer and typing words designed to attract attention by making you think I know what I'm talking about.

Aw, screw it. Good Eats is on.