I am a morning person. I hop out of bed before the alarm rings, make coffee, read the paper, listen to the radio, feed the cats, empty the garbage, make breakfast, read my email, surf the net, pay some bills, and pad around the house trying not to wake the undead woman upstairs.

Three hours later, I hear movement. An hour after that she appears, walking zombielike to the coffee machine. I know better than to say “good morning.” I keep perfectly still, hoping she won’t notice me and bite my head off. Then she pads away to her private den where, behind drawn blinds and closed doors, she makes secret potions out of chicken bones and eye of newt. Not that I’ve ever seen her do it, but what other explanation could there be?

Years after we were married, I found out the morning zombie trait runs in her family. When her sister’s new husband said he had cooked his wife breakfast, the rest of the family looked at him with stunned “Are you out of your mind?” expressions.

“She eats breakfast with you?” someone finally asked in shock, knowing firsthand how dangerous and foolhardy that would be.