Jenny Talks in Her Sleep Like a Crazy Freak

This post was originally published August 30th, 2012.

(I didn’t intend for that to rhyme, but I’m rolling with it.)

When people mumble in their sleep, it’s one thing.  When people open their eyes and have long conversations with you like they’re tripping on acid, it is quite another.

Luckily, Jen and I have families now and aren’t having daily sleepovers anymore.  I mean, we were best friends so it was fun and all, but once the lights went out and we laid our heads on our pillows, I knew it was coming.  Jenny would lie there, quiet at first. I would wait and listen for her breathing.  Once it became slow and labored, I pulled the comforter up to my chin and waited.

Soon, she would twist her head around like Chuckie, look at me with evil crazy eyes, and say something like, “I saw a purple rhinoceros, want to lick it?”

I mean, honestly, who can go back to bed after someone says that crap to them two inches from their face?

And that’s the worst part.  She looks you in the face.

Right through her crazy eyes.

When I first discovered her sleep talking in college, I would be really sweet to her.  As she would talk loudly in her sleep about something perfectly coherent yet totally ridiculous, I would speak back to her gently.

“Shhh, Jenny - you’re sleeping.  Okay?  You’re sleeping.  Go back to sleep.”

“But I’m not done killing the peanut butter bricks.  Have you seen my peanut butter bricks?”

“No, honey, you’re talking like a freaking crazy person.  Now lay down and sleep, ok?  Shhh ...”

“Put a pretzel in it, like a sword.”

“That’s enough now, night night.”

But after our 15th sleep over, I was over it.  Way over it.

“I gotta be there at 10 o’clock and if I’m not there at 10 o’clock I’ll get the cricket dump truck calling my Napster.”

“Shut up, Jenny.”

“No, listen.  But what time is it?  Is it 9 o’clock?  I need to be there at 9!”

“Well what time do you need to be there?  10 or 9?  Get your facts straight,” I’d sass back.  Like, in her sleep, she was being stupid or something. “Now, stop looking at me with your crazy eyes.  Shut your face and go to bed.”

“But ...”

“That’s enough freak talker!  And I said stop looking me in the eyes!!!”

I feel sorta bad recalling my verbal abuse now, but seriously, she was horrible.


(Jenny refused to take a mock sleeping picture like I demanded requested because I was recently trolled a couple times about my vivacious, gorgeous, dynamic, charsmatic hair and now she's nervous.  Pffft. So, in a desperate attempt to find a picture of a woman sleeping I took this screenshot of Jenny from this video about some hilarious boob product called Kush Support.)

One night, for some reason, we both fell asleep in her college dorm room on her tiny top bunk.  (Don’t ask, I don’t have an answer.) I woke up in a jolt, like something was wrong.  Very wrong.

Then I see her.

Hovering over me.

With jail house murder eyes like I’ve never seen before.

“Are you having a good time, sweetie?  Are you having good time?”  Her voice was sweet, like honey.  High pitched crazy, like Cindy Lauper.

“Ugh, Jenny, stop it!  Seriously, put your head down.  You’re freaking me out!”

She started stroking my face.  Slowly, sadistically - the calm before the stabbing.

“I said,” in her creepy, cheery, voice, “are you having a good time?”

“Are you insane?!  I’m asleep!  Stop touching me!”

Then, flat - deep - like the devil - she said, “I’m just asking you if you’re having a good time.”

“What is wrong with you?” I said, my voice quivering.  Panic started to settle in.

“What do you mean?”  She cocked her head and her eye twinkled in the moonlight.  The same, safe moonlight that lost it’s splendor when it fell upon her frozen psycho face.

I was speechless.  This was more than her regular crazy, mumbo jumbo, crap.  She’s making sense, albeit, out of context.  And she’s touching me - and responding to me. What the heck is going on behind those crazy eyes?  Why is she stroking my face like a mob boss about to put a hit on me?  Why are we both crammed together in this ridiculously small twin bed?!?

She lifted her hand to stroke my face one more time and I grabbed her wrist in mid air. “Listen to me.  You are freaking me out.  Now, stop it!  Stop it right now!”

“Oooookaaaay.  Geeeeeeezzz,” she said like an 8 year old kid that was just scolded for eating one cookie too many.

Then that crazy bizzo rolled over and went to sleep!

The audacity!  Now I’m wide awake, still in flight or fight mode, and she’s sleeping peacefully like a nesting mockingbird!

Well guess what?  Nothing has changed.  When we were in NYC for the BlogHer ’12 conference, as we slept in our plush suite, it happened again.  10 years later, like clock work, she rose like a corpse from a casket, looked over at me in my bed and said, “The chicken soup went there.”

Feeling sentimental, I smiled sweetly at her.  “You’re not making any sense you nutbag,” I cooed gently.  “Now go to bed, we have to wake up early tomorrow.”


“Good night, sweet friend.”

“Ok, but almonds get ...”

“Shut up, Jenny.”