I have a cute post office

Apparently.

At least that is what I was told I said out loud in my sleep last night.

"I have to go to my cute post office."

You see, I've recently and suddenly begun talking in my sleep.  It's not something I've ever been known to do before except under post-surgery medication and that particular week was a bar none all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza of epic proportions.

No, the talking I do in my sleep is minimal. But we're still not used to it.

Much of it is unintelligible, but I seem to be speaking more clearly and more often.

One morning about a week ago, I was making cappuccinos and Brian sleepily stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen and asked:

"So.  Who's the asshole?  Me?"

I had apparently flung that little gem out in the wee hours.  But I assured him it was not meant for him.

What really worries me are the little gestures that sometimes accompany these late night shenanigans.

Let's just say that waking Brian at 2 am with a kidney punch is not something I ever hope to experience again.

But it's not all violent.  It is, however, frequently wet.

We both keep large acrylic (thankfully) tumblers of water at our bed side - y'know, the kind you buy for ice tea in summer, over-sized, gaily decorated,  and double walled for insulation (ours feature flamingos and palm trees).

On more than one occasion, said tumbler has been knocked across the room - usually full - resulting in a frantic search in the dark, foul language, a damp carpet and bedding, and an agitated, wet dog who had been innocently sleeping on her now-saturated dog bed next to the night stand.

I'm curious to see where this leads, but for now I'll be grateful that I haven't said or done anything to cause irreparable relationship damage (yet).

Wish me well.  And do come visit my cute little post office sometime.