Monday, April 30, 2012

If someone could please tell me how to successfully post replies on the comment thread, I'd really appreciate it.

I hope it's not "effecting" his dreams. Earth has no defense against aliens armed with statistics. --Theren R., on Nightmares.

Hi, Dad.

Yanno, I spent a good ten minutes this morning debating if it was "affect" or "effect," then gave up because I had to get to work, and I knew, KNEW that if I got it wrong, you'd find some way of correcting me.

Dorian would like me to tell everyone that he, "doesn't trust the grammar judgements of anyone who drinks Moscato by choice."


The company that Dorian worked for did some layoffs recently, and Dorian (and many of our friends) all suddenly found themselves without jobs. He's been quite stressed the last few weeks, and it's very obviously been effecting affecting his dreams. 

Inexplicably, Dorian began bouncing up and down on the bed for several seconds before waking up. Upon waking, obviously upset, he reached out and pulled me into a protective hold.
Dorian: "Are you okay?"
Me, confused and prying his arm off my face: "Yeah, I'm fine. What's wrong?"
"I felt the bed move."

(The sound of Housebear clunking his water bottle)
(Dorian, alarmed) "Unh?"
"It's just Housebear."
(More alarmed) "Where is he?"
"He's in his cage."
(Dorian relaxes.) "Oh, good, then we're safe."
"From what?"
"Guinea pigs...giant guinea pigs...eating us with peanut sauce."

This is from last night:

"Don't leave me!"
"I'll never leave you, don't worry."
"You might if the cheesecake isn't good enough."
"...No, you're just having a bad dream."
"I don't have any clothespins, what do I do?!"
"Just relax, it's okay, I'm here, you're safe, get some sleep."
"No! No! Don't take the money!"
"It's just a bad dream, Dorian, it's okay."
"No, it's foresight! Foresight!"
"Shh, shh, shh--"
"Clothespins! I need clothespins! Don't take it!"
"It's just a bad dream, you're having a bad dream, wake up."
"It's not a bad dream, it's foresight! Like an elf!"

This was then followed by a night of kicking, tossing, reaching over and very deliberately grabbing my half of the blanket, scolding me for hogging it (???), and waking me up several times to ask if I was asleep and if I remembered that I had to be at work in two hours.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Pauly Shore

"He's flapping and flying and not doing his job...Tell her to get her own chair! Pointy-eared bastard...."

"Hey, free car! I'll take it." (This was accompanied by raising his hand.)

"Quicksilver...Max is not his True Name, it is Kevin Costner."

"I'm sorry I'm asleep...I love you, I'm sorry it's okay."

(I roll over)
"What are you, trying to kill me?!"

As I lay sleeping, Dorian rolled over and draped his arm around me, pulling me close. He snuggled up against me, gently laying his face atop my head. I smiled as he brushed my hair away from my ear and whispered, "Adom, I love you so much."

And then, just as I was drifting off into a pleasant slumber, he added, "I'm Pauly Shore."

Monday, April 23, 2012


"You've had one, yes, but what about second breakfast?...Elevensies."

"He won't eat the shrimp...well, fuck Wolfgang, then, if he won't eat the shrimp. Why doesn't he like shrimp?"

Dorian: "Figures, we get free tickets to the tractor exhibit and you don't want to go."
Me: "Do you want to go to a tractor exhibit?"
Dorian, waking: "What? Do I want to--no, why would I want to go to look at tractors?"

Tuesday, April 17, 2012


I was making dinner while Dorian napped in the other room. Suddenly, he began making distressed, angry sounds. He called my name repeatedly, so I ran back into the room. He was still lying asleep, with a bit of the blanket on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Adom! Adom!”
“I’m here, what?”
“There’s a pigeon on my face.”
So I moved the blanket. He smiled and nuzzled his face into the pillow.

“Jari’s hugging me. Put him on defrost forty. Ten for every chicken, and we have five chickens.”
(Jari is a friend of mine--actually, the one that prompted me to make this blog--that Dorian met this weekend at a Dag event. Jari greeted Dorian with a bear hug and the phrase, "I want to live inside of your brain!")

"I'm going to wake up in seven minutes."
"What time is it?"
"Eight thirty-seven."
"Eight minutes."
"Always easiest to get up at the forty five. Ha-hah, still better at math than Jim."

“I need to talk to the boss.”
“About what?”
“Need to borrow his car.”
“What do you need his car for?”

“Is it raining?”
“No, I’m typing.”
“Don’t type rain.”

“I’m very tired. And hungry. Tired. Hungry. Tungry. Yeah, tungry.”

Our guinea pig is named Sir Robert Nicolas Housebear, the Windswept Crusader. As Dorian snored, Housebear started running about in his cage, clunking his water bottle. Dorian startled at the sound and opened his eyes.
Me: “It’s Housebear.”
Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. A moment later, Housebear clunked the bottle again.
Dorian: “Jeez, it sounds like he’s in the dryer…”
A few seconds passed, and he sat up, alarmed and glaring at me.
“He’s not in the dryer, is he? Why would you put him in the dryer?! Get him out of there!”

(Dorian would like me to amend that statement. Housebear is my guinea pig. Dorian's guinea pig would be eaten.)

Friday, April 13, 2012

Two minutes to Belgium!

Dorian and Jim spent the day working in the garage, making Dagorhir weapons. At the end of the day, they came over to our place and started watching Logan's Run. I'm afraid I was paying more attention to the movie than their conversation (they were still talking weapons specs, I think), so I missed the lead up, but, apparently, Dorian fell asleep in the middle of their conversation.

Dorian: "Yeah, I like to use an extra layer of blue foam...on the core...I always use monkey grip on all of my weapons..."

And now, from last night:

(Translated from Spanish) "I am the cheese, take the gun!"

Dorian rolled over and started tugging at my pants.
"You...need my pants?"
"Yeah, or else."
"Or else what?"

And this morning, I was prodded awake with this:

"How's the king?"
"How did the election for the king go?"
"What king?"
"The king of encephalitis."

He then spent the next thirty to forty minutes repeatedly asking about the king. I had to wake him up so I could get some sleep.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Thanks, Snoop Dogg

He had eggrolls before bed again!

*Dorian rolls over, nuzzles me, and takes a deep breath in. He sighs contentedly.*
" smell okay."

"I don't speak French!"

(This was accompanied by a "hop," of sorts. He suddenly bounced in the bed, waking himself up in the process.)

"Your face was asleep. Dreaming. Mezzanine."

*Dorian wraps his arms around me*
"I love you so're my favorite...I just want to hold you's okay, he ate it on the's gone, now."

"Doesn't hurt, not sunburn. (Sighs appreciatively) Thanks, Snoop Dogg...your face is...too...I love you. Take the ball, that's why I prefer plain men...well, find out if he's in town, then he can come to practice."

"I punched through the plexiglass paper and Jim and Arthur was impressed...sandwich."

(This exchange is from me reading this entry aloud to him.)

"You talk about sandwiches a lot in your sleep."
"That's because sandwiches are amazing!"
"Yeah, but that's like, the topic you come back to the most. That, and sex. Sex and sandwiches, that's most of what you talk about."
"Well, to be fair...that's pretty much what makes me run."

Sunday, April 1, 2012

I think he was hungry

Me: "Let's get to bed."
Dorian: "Nooo..."
"You're falling asleep."
"I'm falling into making a sandwich."

Dorian: "You were right."
Me: "Hnh? About what?"
"The blueberries aren't fresh at all."

*Dorian waves his hands wildly in front of his face and covers his head*
"Ahh! Pizza!"

Dorian: "Do we have eggs?"
Me: "Yes."
"How many?"
"Seven or eight."
"Dammit, man, is it seven or eight?"
(As I reach for the notebook, Dorian falls back into a snoring state. A few minutes pass, and then...)
"Do we have eggs?"
"How many?"
"...Seven or eight..."
"Dammit, man, is it--wait, I think I knew that....zzzzz..."