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 Regressed to a Small Child in the Middle of the Night

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So, there I was, snuggled under the covers, in my usual left-side-fetal-position, head resting delicately on my silken pillow, hands pressed together under my left cheek, lips parted slightly…I was the epitome of Sleeping Beauty.

Eh, who am I kidding? I was tangled up in the sheets (of which I had hogged and with them somehow only covering my left arm and right leg), spread-eagle face up, head between two pillows, mouth opened wide, and with drool…lots of drool. Like more drool than the Who Twins combined in their first year.

I woke up to a strange sound – probably my gasping snores from apparently trying to suffocate myself in the pillow sandwich – and in my half alerted state became fearful.

You see, my left leg was hanging off the bed.  Panicking, I slowly, painstakingly, and deliberately moved my left leg back on the bed.

Because we all know that the thing under the bed cannot grab you if your leg is on the bed.

These are the rules.

Now that my limb was safe from the “under the bed monster”, I looked up and what I saw scared the BeJesus out of me…and we all know how hard it is for the BeJesus to come out. My ceiling fan shadow, in the glow of the baby monitor, took on the shape of a ginormous tarantula/Mothra hybrid and was directly over top of me.

(And, no, I didn’t eat Ben & Jerry’s last night)

When I realized what the shadow was I smiled in relief, but it was brief, as the fish took yet ANOTHER opportunity to have a fish fight and the sloshing of water made my stomach feel like I was going down the world’s fastest rollercoaster with no seatbelts.

This is not my night, because then I notice a strange shadow in the hallway. It moved slightly back and forth. In my astigmatismic haze I could not make out the shape, but it seemed to have noticed me.

I did what any self preservationist would do, and slowly covered my face with the sheet. Because if you can’t see IT, then IT can’t see you.

These are the rules.

(It wasn’t until morning did I remember that I put an oscillating fan in the hallway. A big, scary CarrieLouWho eating monster fan.)

But still, because of the rules I was still safe from anything that might have thought I tasted like chicken.

CarrieLouWho – protein choice of monsters everywhere!



Death by Suffocation – Aquarium Edition


We have the luxury of having a 90 gallon aquarium in our bedroom. It’s nice to watch the fish do their thing in the tank (except when they deliver waste everywhere, ’cause eww), and it is calming and relaxing.  We have watched these guys grow up for the last 2+ years, and it’s been neat.

We decided to pay them back by almost murdering them.

Not long ago, Mr. Who came in from mowing the Who grass, and was just about to finally sit down for the day when he noticed the fish were gasping. Like huge mouths open, heart clutching, “It’s the big one! I’m coming home to you, Elizabeth!”, kind of gasping.

Eyes were bulging even more than normal, they were barely moving, and the mean one I call “Grandpa” who usually yells at all the other fish to “git off my property!” was seeking comfort from his fellow gill-bearers. The catfish lost their appetites, and the plecostomus was perched like a beached whale on top of a rock, rather than licking the tank like usual. (It’s especially hysterical when he does his algae licking facing you so you can see that weird tongue thing moving around.)

Mr. Who tears off into the bedroom to grab the filter that had stopped and tore back into the kitchen to get everything ready to fix the tank. We had no idea how long the filter had been off. Of course, in his haste he spilled carbon everywhere (down the garbage disposal!) and had to start over again. He might have said a few bad words…

Meanwhile, I was in the bedroom nervously wringing my hands and tapping on the glass whenever one started dipping scarily low to the bottom. I was cheering them on: “Don’t die on me now!” The poor little fish kept going up to the very top to grab an air bubble or two.

My favorite fish, who I named “Cher” as she is pink and sparkly and fabulous was staring at me through the tank. I got real close, and softly sang: “Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming” to which she looked at me in disgust and went over to hang with Grandpa. She obviously hasn’t seen “Nemo”.

At one point, everyone got very still. It was eerie, like when the birds stop singing before a storm. I yelled: “LIVE, DAMMIT, LIVE!” causing Mr. Who, who was running back in the room, to ponder calling me an ambulance.

The next 20 minutes as the water was drained and put back in were tense. They were very lethargic by this time, and I worried it was too late. They might all have brain damage and spend the next hours of their life banging into each other.

But soon, life began to come back into the fish. I swear Cher had turned a boring salmon color at one point, but now her sparkles were coming back. Grandpa was pushing all the kids away from his space, and the tin foil barbs went back to being the tools they usually were.

Mr. Who saved the day, thank goodness. I had grown attached to the fish. Which is weird since they don’t talk, cuddle, go for walks, play with toys, or do anything remotely sociable.

But I swear, they still gaze warily at me from time to time… they must have heard about us filling in the goldfish pond out back, and no one has heard from the goldfish since…

Dun, dun, dunnnnnn…


My fish are creepy…


I think it takes a lot to creep me out.  I used to get completely disgusted by worms.  Worms were slippery, writhing and wet.  And holy crap you could cut them in half and now there’s two.  There is really no need for that sort of mutant power.  Can you imagine if people could do that? The Highlander theme would have to change to: “There can be only two-ish”.  Worms are okay by me now, if for no other reason than to let me know that my dirt is good.

I don’t like slime.  I don’t like maggots (“Maggots, Michael. You’re eating maggots. How do they taste?”) or the smell of that one potato that rolled behind the garbage can a few weeks ago that I just found that’s making my gag reflex take complete control over my body. I don’t like other people’s boogers.  That is to say, I don’t like mine either, but at least they’re mine.  Oh, and other people’s, you know, insides coming out are gross, too. Unless they belong to my children then it’s still gross, but it’s mine to clean.

Of course, I don’t know a whole lot of people who go around saying: ” I LOVE boogers and maggots! Are you crazy? And diapers?? LOVE THEM! I’d change EVERYONE’S diapers if I could!” If you do know this person?  PLEASE let me meet them.

That all being said, my fish of all things, can be a little creepy.  We have a ninety gallon freshwater tank with some African cichlids, danios, a couple of catfish, an algae eater, and a few others with really fancy names.  They are pretty, fun to look at, and often at night when we put the kids down for bed, my husband and I turn off all the lights in the bedroom except for the tank, and we lay on the floor watching the fish for a bit until our joints get really stiff and then hilarity ensues as we try to help each other off the floor.

I usually feed the fish (my twins call them “sishies”) and lately I’ve noticed that whenever I move by the tank, they go all Borg and collectively move en masse towards me.  It never occurred to me that fish could be “trained” like this.  I mentioned it to my husband and he remarked that they know that the “dark shape” feeds them.   That is what I think creeps me out.  I didn’t think fish had brains.  I mean, I know they have  “brain” brains, but not cognitive awareness that whenever a dark shape walks by, that it’s time to eat. Plus they stare at me, like they are trying to figure me out.  I try to fake them out and move over to the other side quickly, but they are too smart for that, they go right with me.

I did have a frightening thought during my Cinco de Mayo beer margarita: what if my fish are the ones that go all Planet of the Apes on us? Should I be proud?  Maybe it’s the super yummy freeze-dried plankton we give them, or the blood worms and sea monkeys, er brine shrimp, they get occasionally.  It’s making them super smart and hyper aware, and I’m going to wake up and be tied to the ground like Gulliver one morning.  I’m scared, someone hold me.

If they are smarter than we think, I know right now they are in there saying: “Good Lord, our Feeder is wearing that weird Cookie Monster shirt again.  Doesn’t she know it’s about three sizes too big?  And those pants?  Yellow smiley face pants?  Hellooo? Can someone dress that thing?”

Great,  my fish are diabolical junior high school girls.

We lost the algae eater…

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My husband and I have a 90 gallon freshwater aquarium in our bedroom and it is way cool.  We don’t have all the fish in it that we want yet because we’re waiting to see if we kill off the six danios, a.k.a: “The Expendables”, first.  It has become a major point of interest in our home and one of the first things my proud husband likes to show people.

This is my husband’s hobby that I, by extension, am now enjoying.  I have personally laid to rest many fish in my lifetime, and have noticed when I’m in a pet store looking at fish, they start whispering to each other and refuse to make eye contact with me, so I guess I must have a reputation within the community.  I’m trying to make up for years of 1st degree murder by being a good owner and taking care of the fish or “sishies” as our two-year olds call them.  I have a testing kit (in a Star Wars lunch box, no less) to check all the levels my husband needs to know, and I have my little Excel spreadsheet and every day I do my duty.

So far so good, now time for an algae eater.  My husband likes to be all fancy and call it by its actual name:  hippocampus, hypotheses, hyperbole, oh yes, it’s Hypostomus Plecostomus!  I was close.  We bought little Hypo on a Friday and we watched him move around that day, Saturday, Sunday morning, then he disappeared. While it’s easy to hide in all the rocks,  it’s going on two weeks now since we’ve seen him. We’re positive it’s been chow for The Expendables for a good week now.

Or was it?  One thing my husband said to me when we first put the tank up was that if we don’t close the cover, sometimes the fish will jump out and you never know where you will find one.  Um, ewwwww.  That must have been stuck in my mind last night, because I had another of my doozy CarrieLouWho dreams and was talking all night.

I had dreams that I was finding that algae eater everywhere!  I found it in my purse while looking for my keys.  I found it staring at me in the shower.  I saw it out in a horse stable and some little kid was riding on it.  It was in a cake I was baking.  I slid on it, like a banana peel out the front door and broke 200 bones.  All night, that’s all I was dreaming about.

The worst dream I had was that I woke up and it was sucking on my big toe.  I looked down and it was looking at me while sucking on my big toe.  I tried to get it off, but it stretched and stretched to about five feet long, then I woke up. I’m shuddering now thinking about it.  I must have been tossing and turning all night because my hair could have rivaled Carrot Top’s when I woke up.

So while I know logically (and I don’t usually think logically) that if it had jumped out it would most likely not have a toe fetish and be dead, I’m still watching where I step for another day or two.  I’m just now worried that my husband is going to read this and decide to do something to freak me out.  I just know I’m going to wake up tomorrow with something squishy on my toe.


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