Sweet Dreams are Made of…Something I Have No Access to!

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I have always had funky dreams. In color. Bright vivid color.

I had a recurring Freddie Krueger dream from the ages of 15 to about 35 where he was chasing me up an oil rig (which RIGHT there tells you something is wrong, because I’m afraid of standing on a step ladder with only 2 steps), and right when he’s about to grab me with his shiny metal knife fingers, I turn to him and say: “I love you, Freddie” and he disappears until the next time I have the dream.

I’m sure a dreamologist would have a field day with me, but I would be afraid they would commit me to a hospital of no return if I shared too much.

The other night, I wasn’t feeling great, took a few Motrin and went to bed. I started talking in my haze again, which just delights the husband. So much, I’m pretty sure he puts down whatever he’s reading and stares at me, silently giggling while I spout off about whatever.

So that night, I was POSITIVE that our plecostomus, (nicknamed Plucky) was making “NUM NUM” noises while licking the algae from the tank. He likes to do it full on stuck to the front of the aquarium so you can see his tongue thing moving all over. The tank is about 10 feet from the bed, and I started giggling like a loon in my sleep because he was so into the lickage. I wake myself up half-way from my laughing and I hear Jeff say (in an “aww, that’s my crazy ass wife” tone”: “Whatcha laughing at sweetie?” I tell him, then fall back to sleep.

The Pluckster in his "King of the Tank" pose (ignore the poop)

The Pluckster in his “King of the Tank” pose (ignore the poop)

I had a total of 426.5 dreams that night, and the following were the highlights:

1. Gary Coleman and I were playing chicken in a pool with Will Smith and Philip Seymour Hoffman (Arnold was on MY shoulders).

2. I was attacked by the rhesus monkey from the movie “Outbreak” but since I had 13 bananas in my pocket I distracted him and ran away.

3. We won 18 billion dollars in the Powerball and when I was waving the ticket and screaming: “OH YEAH, WE’RE RICH BITCHES!” a gust of wind took the ticket and two days later some 19 year old frat boy claimed the money.

4. I was a featured clarinet soloist for a John Williams movie, and right when I went to play the reed broke into my lip and I had to get it removed at the hospital.  I was not asked back.

5. I sat down on an oatmeal pie and was stuck to my couch for 2 hours and had to call the police to unstick me.

6. I flew to Scotland with my mom and took her to dinner. We forgot our wallets and they threw us into Loch Ness for not paying.

The rest of my dreams are just too crazy to write down.


I Got Nothing…

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My friend Wendy demanded I write something since I haven’t been blogging on her time schedule  (which is wretchedly demanding, and if we lived closer to each other I fear she would show up at my house at 3 am and smack me repeatedly in the left eye until I did her bidding.)

But I got nothing.


Ok, well,  I WAS sick for the last week and a half with lungs that sounded gross enough for the doctor to drop his stethoscope and scream: “OH MY LORD JESUS DO THOSE THINGS SOUND WET! PREDNISONE AND ANTIBIOTICS STAT!” then he ran to another room weeping and washed his hands until they bled.

So there was that.

I have attempted to knit something for my mom for Christmas and since she might read this, I can’t tell you what it is, but I have ripped it out 5,467 times. She’s going to get this though, even if I have to buy it on Etsy and pretend I made it. (Love you, Mommy)

So there’s that.

Every time I pick up my twins from preschool, Twin A yells: “I DIDN’T SAY ANY BAD WORDS TODAY!” which is good because I have irresponsibly allowed him to listen to music that he shouldn’t, but Epic Rap Battles of History are hysterical. See what I mean watching Rick Grimes vs. Walter White:

Twin B woke me up out of a dead sleep this morning (dead because I took a bunch of Benedryl) at 5 am because he was soaked in pee. So soaked I could have wrung out his little Captain America Pajamas and created a one gallon tank for any peefish that might come along. I stripped him in my haze of antihistamine and then he started freaking out because Mr. Who refused to allow Pee-Blankie in bed with us. So I had to search through a clothes hamper for some dry clothes to put on his wet, pee laced skin, then he, of course, takes over most of the California King.

His feet were so cold, ice will now worship him and call him King. I think he might have stuck his big ice toe in my ear at some point, but again…Benedryl.

And that.

My oldest, Teen Who, is looking at colleges this week. It depresses and excites me at the same time. Hopefully he will do his homework and I won’t have to pull him out of school by his ear in front of all his friends.

So, I guess if you count possible pneumonia, knotty knitting, bad words, pee kids, and college bound kids, I have some stuff going on.

Crossing fingers for no Ebola.

Don’t I Get Ice Cream for That?

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A few weeks ago I went to the Emergency Room, twice in 3 days. One day was the morning I was to leave on an overnight with Mr. Who for our 5th anniversary, and the other was the morning I was to go to see “Night Under Fire” at the racetracks.

It all started with Twin Ick.

Both the Who Twins had croup within a few days of each other. It sounded like the seal den at Sea World with all the barking around here from those two. Twin A refused to take medicine. There was no liquid I could hide it in. I begged, cajoled, cried, pleaded, and (I’m ashamed to admit it) threatened to take Blankie away if he didn’t take it. That just made him cry and bark more.

He needed Motrin, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way. And when I say we I mean Mr. Who, and when I say old-fashioned, I mean up the wahoo…(I hope “wahoo” is a universal term, or there might be some serious misunderstandings).

Turns out Wahoo medicine doesn’t hurt at all, and Twin A kinda grew to like it. Now we’ve created a Wahoo monster. It’s ok for now, but I’m not doing it when he’s a teenager.

I have limits.

Twin B drinks his juice so often and so quickly, I could probably hide a bowl of mac-n-cheese in it and he wouldn’t know, or care.  So he was not a lucky recipient of the Wahoo medicine.

They finally got better, then yours truly starts feeling it. Not the croup, although, that would have been interesting as a 42 year old.  I would have totally taped myself barking like a seal.

I thought at first it was allergies. I CANNOT be getting sick. I have been waiting for this anniversary trip for 364 days. Monday, I’m feeling “eh”. Tuesday I’m feeling: “ehhhhhh”, and Wednesday morning, the morning of the trip, I couldn’t swallow and somehow Khan snuck into my home and shoved 18,000 earwigs into my ears.


The PAIN! Oh. Em. Gee. It hurt so bad. I was scared to swallow, but was so thirsty. I wanted to drink a gallon of water. I never want to drink a gallon of water until I can’t.  Swallowing hurt and I ached from head to toe. Like ran over with a truck, then run over by a steamroller, then used as a flyswatter by Godzilla. I crawled into the ER, begging for relief. You know what they gave me at the hospital?


Where were my painkillers? My saline? My antibiotic??

I got nothing but one little nausea pill and a few to take home.


So I went home, and somehow after a few hours of back and forth got Mr. Who to take me away anyway. I mean, come on, would you rather get over something HUGE like Pharyngitis (yeah, apparently we have pharnyxes) alone or with kids jumping on you?

So we went, watched a lot of movies and I started feeling better.

Then came Saturday morning where my ears hurt again so bad, I was begging for the olden days of 18,000 earwigs. I drive myself to the ER, stumbled in, and whispered: “please help me, I’m going to throw up”…Just so you know, when “vomit” is mentioned, the nice nurses in triage take you in much faster.

THIS ER doctor couldn’t BELIEVE the other one sent me home without an antibiotic since I had a raging case of…

Wait for it…


But not really, because my tonsils weren’t really swollen, there was just nothing else to call it. It was a mystery.

So yes, I, CarrieLouWho, aged 42, went to the ER twice for tonsillitis.

Who goes to the ER for that??? Me.

I missed Night Under Fire.

And I couldn’t even eat any ice cream.


“The Last of Us” is an Oscar Worthy video game

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I lucked out with Mr. Who in the TV watching and video game department. We like all the same shows, mostly the same movies (although I like mine a little more Blood Light), and he rarely ever channel surfs. On the rare occasions when he does, it’s almost guaranteed he will stop to watch “Cops”. He also only plays video games when I suggest it.

Not in the :”I, CarrieLouWho, grant thee, thine peasant, permission to playeth yon game” kind of way. More of a: “Sorry, babe, I can’t watch TV tonight, I have to work. It’s a video game night for you”.  He will then sigh a deep, sad, fake sigh, kick an empty pop can across the floor, and with his manly shoulders hanging dejectedly will say “okay, I guess so”, then run to find the controller.

While working from home has its perks, I need more hours to do it.  The 3 hours a morning the kids are in preschool are helpful, but not enough to get everything accomplished.  On top of work, I’m taking a graduate class to renew my teaching license. While at this moment in time, thanks to the twins’…er…energy… I cannot imagine going back into a classroom full of MORE kids, but I’m renewing just in case. So I have to continue work after the kids go to bed, which is probably not productive as I am extremely tired, and very stupid by then.

But still, I get to sit close to my Mr. Who on the couch and write stuff while he kills stuff. He usually plays epic games like Final Fantasy or Skyrim, but has lately been playing “The Last of Us”. This game is a Walking Dead kind of game, but there is a girl who could possibly cure the contagion that has spread around the world. It’s Mr. Who’s job to escort her across the country, while fighting awful not-infected people, cannibals, and zombies.

While I sit there listening, I’m struck by how awesome the script is. The voice acting is really good, and it seems more realistic than other games we have seen. At one point, a man had to kill his own infected brother, then kills himself from grief (and possibly a brother bite, not sure). The music swells, the characters scream, it’s so sad, and very intense. I know intense. I was once at the very, very, very last level of Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega Genesis with only 1 life left when Teen Who, who was about 3 at the time, tripped over the cord and unplugged the game from the wall.

This was before memory cards. But I’m not bitter. I just like to remind Teen Who about it once a week or so. (For the last 14 years).

As far as the Last of Us, Mr. Who might not know it, but a few times I watched, I MIGHT have had a few tears well up from the story. I don’t want to CRY at a video game, dangit. I’m more of a God of War girl. I want weapons, and I want to kill stuff. I want to kill bad guys quickly, and with fire whips. That’s how I roll.

The Last of Us, should definitely be made into a movie, it’s that good to watch. Hopefully Mr. Who won’t beat it too quickly, so I can watch more of it.

And yes, you read that right, no memory cards! How did we live???

I Started a Contagion

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Mr. Who and I have killed hundreds, possibly thousands. Selfishly, gleefully, and more than once.  We have poisoned, maimed, and lured many of the unsuspecting to their deaths.

In our defense, they entered our home without permission, and the police are no help.  They do not care that hundreds of sugar ants have committed a home invasion.

In the winter. In  Ohio. What self-respecting ant comes out of their warm abodes in -10 degree weather? They deserve their little ant fates.

Mr. Who and I use the tried and true Terro Ant Killer for our little friends. They are attracted to the delicious Borax laden liquid and before they are slowly killed, they take it back to the colony to share it with their besties. It works well, and 2 days later our kitchen infestation is over.

It reminds me of the movies Outbreak, Quarantine, and Contagion. I can’t help but wonder what it was like in the colony when the ants come back with their infectious, little ant selves.  Here they are, the best of the best, sent out by their leaders to find some food. The starving colony anxiously awaits their return. Wife ants hold their baby ants close while waving goodbye to their heroic husband ants.

Then they return. But they are not the same. They are Dead Ants Walking.

One by one, they start acting strange, coughing a lot, sneezing uncontrollably, high fever, aches, chills, etc. Doctor ants are perplexed, and the ant hospitals are gaining more patients by the hour.  Other ants that touch those that came back from beyond are getting sick, too. Slowly they die, one by one.  The CoD (Center of Death) cannot pinpoint the origins, and soon they die, too.

They will never know that it was I, CarrieLou Who, like the rhesus monkey, the plague ravaged rat, and the guano infected banana eating piglet, who started the Contagion.

I’d like to say I’d never do it again, but I hate those freakin’ things.


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I Have No Filter!

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(A note from Mom)

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The writings of an American somebody


prattles on the pathos of parenting

Jenny Kanevsky


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and other absurdities

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"I don't know so well what I think until I see what I say; then I have to say it again." -Flannery O'Connor

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Adventures With Family. (Making it up as I go along.)

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