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.

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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!

 

 

What do Frodo, guacamole and Mr. Furley have in common?

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I like fantasy.  No, scratch that, I LOVE fantasy, I lurve it.  I love those epic stories with huge battle scenes where everyone and everything are fighting together for the common good, like Chronicles of Narnia. Or on the same vein, multi-species battles over a somewhat decent looking piece of possessed jewelry that turns that nice little boy from “The Good Son” into a bit of crazy so he needs Rudy to watch over him until they get it back to Kay’s Jewelers where it was forged.

Love that stuff.  I will also be the first to tell you that I WILL cry in any movie that has a slow motion epic battle scene with an orchestral background.  Unabashed wailing.  Do not give me crappy Kleenex, this is a Puffs Plus only home.  One scene that makes me weep is on Prince Caspian where the Minotaur is bravely trying to hold up the gate so the heroes can escape the castle and it’s coming down and you just know that poor, big, old, sweet hairy thing is going to die and that gate is going to crash down and he’s going to save everyone and no! they are shooting him with arrows and he’s weakening and…wahhhhhh!!

I like monsters, vampires, werewolves, zombies, undead, half-dead, mostly dead, mutants, X men, talking robots, fighting robots, superheroes with powers, superheroes without powers, Things, aliens that like you, Men in Black, aliens that hate you, trolls, swashbucklers, Skywalkers, hobbits, wizards, slayers, Sitheses (Sithi? Sithy? Sithes? probably just Sith), witches,  and everything else I missed that would probably make me pee a little if they came to my door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar.

Knowing this about myself,  I couldn’t help but be a little weirded out by a few things that happened lately. For one thing, I keep having dreams that I am an evil princess that wants to destroy the world, rude, yes, but I look FANTASTIC in black leather. The other is I was bit by a mosquito a week ago, while not earth shattering news, and most likely some of you might have had this experience,

but as you can see, it was by a vampire mosquito.  They aren’t very common in my area, but I’m like nectar to those things.  Ever since I’ve lost 2.5 pounds (so not complaining), have been craving guacamole like a fiend, and I’ve had some odd thoughts.  More so than usual.

 I mention these things to my husband occasionally, who just grins, albeit worriedly, pats me on the head with a “Oh, CarrieLou”, and runs off to make phone calls in hushed tones.

For example, I was pushing the kids on the swings and all of a sudden birds blew out of the woods.  I swear to you that I heard a groaning sound.  What would a normal person’s first thought be?  Probably: “Hmm, must be a deer. ” or “I wonder if I should make meat loaf for dinner.”  CarrieLou’s first thought? “Wow, I wonder what would happen if there was an infected person in the woods and was going to try to kill us?”  Yeah, it’s not a zombie, people.  Zombies are raised by black magic, there will never be a Zombie Apocalypse, no need to worry about that.  It will just be gross nasties trying to eat you.

Also, we have a koi pond with two fat pink fish. Since we inherited the house and the weather has been beyond suck and we aren’t exactly sure how to take care of this thing yet, the water is, shall we say…black as tar.  It’s been clearing up lately and occasionally flashes of pink shine by.  We also have a few frogs.  So the other day, I was looking out at the pond, and a frog was on a rock about an inch from the water, and a fish was above the water facing it.  I swear they were talking. Let me reiterate: my fish was above the water facing a frog with its little fish lips moving. 

I suddenly had a flash of a movie I saw as a kid, remember this?

Yep, pretty sure my koi is Mr. Furley.

Fantastic Dream, Nightmare reality…

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I have always dreamed in color.  My mom said that was a sign of a creative mind, but considering the amount of bloodshed my mind creates for me in the wee hours of the morning, I’d consider it a great favor if the gods would grant me a dull inner dome.  I share my dreams occasionally with my friends and family, and while I know there is nothing more potentially boring than hearing a disjointed sequence that makes sense only to the storyteller, I’ve had some doozies I’ve just had to share.

I’ve also talked about them in my sleep, much to the amusement of my husband.  It’s not uncommon for me to say something like: “The monkeys won’t stop peeing on the roof” as I’m nodding off, or “Oh no! We’re out of hot dog stamps!” at 4 a.m.  I always thought it would be awesome if there was a machine that you could hook yourself up to at night that records your dreams and you could watch them the next day.  Make sure you watch them alone first, ladies, in case it’s one of those bodice-ripping romantic ones where a faceless yet handsome stranger comes into town on a beautiful, white horse and rescues you from your tortuous life of being betrothed to the town villain…ahem…

I’ve never had one of those.

But just think, what if you had the most fantastic dream and an agent saw it?  You could be famous and all you had to do was sleep!  Anyone could be a celebrity at any age! You’d see some awkward twenty-something kid on T.V. being interviewed (most likely by Ryan Seacrest) for their latest Freud-winning Dreamovie asking how they did it; he would mumble nervously: “Oh, you know, I was like playing Call of Duty 4? Then I ate like a TON of Doritos, had a few beers, and fell asleep.  I woke up at noon, plugged myself into the dream machine, and like, here I am!”  Or maybe someone like my grandma, who wins an award for having a dream about the Depression in which she relives the moment in her life when she was five years old and broke her leg by getting hit by the only car in town. True story, folks!

I’d like to think I’d be a megabazillionaire for my dreams.  I have always wanted to put them into a journal, but they are usually just best summed up in a sentence or two.  If I tried to make a story out of it, the DEA might get wind and feel the need to raid my home.  Lately, I’ve been having dreams that as a teenager would have loved to have happen in real life but when I wake up and think about them, they are just impractical.  Here’s a few examples:

1. Swimming in a house filled with spaghetti: very much fun, but who do you think is going to clean THAT up?

2.  Being whisked away by stranger on a horse:  ok, who’s going to watch the kids?  Who is this man?  How did he find me?  Was he stalking me?  Will my husband have any clue where to look for me?  Will my husband look for me? Who is going to get my teen to band?  Is the stranger going to try to eat me?  I don’t want to go out like that!

3.  Kicking vampire ass: Oh, yes, I’m CarrieLou, vampire ass-kicker in my dreams, but in reality, I can’t even get off the couch after an hour without my knees creaking. The vampires would TOTALLY hear me coming…plus, I scream whenever I’m startled…I’m a sissy, I know.

4.  Going to a secluded island with my husband: ok, yes, this would be awesome and wonderful, but again, who will watch the kids that long?  Where did we get the money?  How long of vacation time do we have?  Did we check the weather before we left? Oh my God! Did I turn off the iron???

Maybe I shouldn’t eat a pound of Peanut Butter M&M’s every night…

Parents are doomed…

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I had an epiphany in my sleep.  My husband might tell you that I ate too much of Johnny Marzetti IV from allrecipes.com (I’m telling you, it’s like a drug, people), and was only heartburn, but no.  Somewhere in between a dream of my Kent State University music major days where I forgot to wear clothes for a clarinet recital, but bravely performed the concert of my life to a thirty minute standing ovation and the recurring Godzilla dream where I have to marry him to save the world I realized something very important: children are born with an agenda.

From the moment they take their first breath, they are not only breathing in air, they are gaining the last bit of super secret enlightenment from the umbilical cord that is specifically coded to their parents DNA so they know who to use their knowledge against. From that moment on, you, by your very DNA, have become their bitch.  They cry when other people are around, but everyone knows they will only stop for you.   They usually only smile for you and hug and kiss you, too, and that’s nice and all, but they also usually only hit you, kick you, throw things at you, pull your hair, scream the scream that makes you run and check on your wine glasses, and throw poop at you.  They don’t do this for anyone else.

The real kicker is when other people watch them, they are angels.  They don’t do the aforementioned awfulness.  They are little peaches.  They, of course, do the obligatory “No, mommy don’t leave me!” crap right when you leave to give you the illusion that you matter, but your sitters and in-laws will tell you the real truth: they stop before you even put your car in drive.  You vent to your family about the things your kids do, and they think you have no control because as soon as you leave they instantly become cute little baby pumpkins that would never do any of those things you claim they do.

It’s part of the agenda: to make people think you’re nuts.

Now I don’t remember any sort of agenda when I was younger.  I was never invited to any anti-parent rallies, and there was no Underground Network in my day.  I’m positive there is one now.  I can hear my twins giggling up in their room. They don’t realize I can hear them over the monitor, and I can hear my name mentioned occasionally.  When I go up there, they instantly stop talking and stare at me.  Something’s up.  Between their two-year old babble and twinspeak, I’m screwed.

Then one will flip out for no reason, like a cat.  They are all nice and purry when you pet them, then out of the blue they start using you as a nail sharpener.  You do everything you can to figure what the heck is wrong.  They go Tasmanian Devil on you, you’re in a tizzy, then suddenly they are smiling with that one big, fat tear threatening to fall from one big, blue eyeball, and you melt.

It’s part of the agenda: getting your guard down.

I will have to continue this at a later time as my spawn are jumping up and down in their cribs so hard it sounds like they have multiplied. It wasn’t very bright yesterday, I know I didn’t feed them after midnight, but we did get them wet…uh oh…

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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