Tag Archives: wtf

(not so) Sweet Dreams

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Do you ever have a night where you feel like you dream the entire time? I did last night. Most of the night, my dreams were good. Comforting, happy, fun. I would wake after one of those dreams with a big smile on my face, drift off, and dream again.

I love those nights.

But, this morning I woke a little after 5 and when I drifted off again, my dreams went from comforting to scary.

I was driving a maroon car. I think it was something like a Dodge Charger (which is funny for several reasons, one being ME? IN A DODGE CHARGER? REALLY? LOL) I think I was delivering something for my job and suddenly a big car full of men was behind me. And they were shooting at me.

Being the ace driver that I am, naturally, I got away. But I was freaking out. WTF did this gang want with me? What had I done?

I pulled the giant car down a cobblestone street (probably pedestrian only knowing me and my ace driving skills) and thought I was hidden pretty well. But of course, they found me. I revved up the car and punched it, only to get stuck between a tree and a building. (see? Totally an ace driver)

I jump out the back and lay low behind the giant tree trunk while the gang of miscreants empties their automatic weapons into the car. Luckily they didn’t see me escape, so they think they’re killing me off.

Just then, a dude pulls up behind me, grabs me, and pulls me into his car. He whisks me off like some kinda super hero. He tells me his name is Jackson (why I remember this, I don’t know. Maybe he was Action Jackson?) and he needs to take me to see someone.

We go to an old apartment building that looks condemned, he knocks, and Laurence Fishburne opens the door. Suddenly I’m feeling a bit like Neo from the Matrix. Like maybe I’m the chosen one or something. Fishburne welcomes me into his very beautifully decorated home, sits me down, and Jackson tells him the story.

Just as I’m starting to relax, the miscreants find me. And I wake up.

I did a little googling this morning to see what the hell all that meant. Chasing dreams indicate stress. Okay, I can see that. To dream you’re being shot at suggests a confrontation in your waking life. Alright. Not so far off. Being rescued represents an aspect of yourself that has been neglected or ignored and that you are trying to express this neglected part of yourself. Hmmm.

Funny how the subconscious works.

Do you have any weird or recurring dreams? Have you ever tried to figure out what they mean or do you just chalk it up to weird brain waves and move on?

wax on; wax off

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This post may be a little bit on the TMI side. If you work with me, you’ll probably want to stop reading now.

Seriously.
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Last chance….
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Yesterday, I checked off another item of my 40 Things to do at 40 List

Get waxed (Legs, pits and um…yeah. I’m gonna go there. All the way there.
That will be some blog…)(I’m planning this for April, before I go to
Florida where I plan to get loads of sun…)

So, I did it. (Not the pits. I didn’t let the hair grow out enough. Let’s
face it, that may never happen because EWW!)

I was nervous. Even though I managed to nearly fall asleep during my 3 hour tattoo session I really thought waxing was gonna hurt like hell.

Um. Will you kill me if I tell you I nearly fell asleep while she was ripping my leg hairs out by the folicle? Obviously, I have a very high tolerance to pain. Or I find it very relaxing. Whatever.

I twittered the entire time and I texted a couple of friends while it was happening.

The legs were nothing. That actually felt good.

The hoo-ha? Didn’t hurt like I thought it would. It was uncomfortable a couple of times, but overall, no problemo.

One thing you may or may not know about the Full Monty wax (or the Wax-a-hoo as I’ve been calling it) is that they do more than the girly area. Oh yes, they do the butt crack, too. Apparently everyone (but me, of course) has a hair buttcrack, who knew?

Also, Cassandra (my wax on, wax off girl) gave me my new favorite word: Assfro as in, some people grow ass on their cheeks and that is called an Assfro. (BTW: I am not one of those people)

And there you have it. My TMI blog about my wax-a-hoo.

You’re welcome.

how NOT to pick up Mel…

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Let’s set the stage:

Mel is browsing the humor section in Barnes and Noble when she feels someone staring at her. She glances up to see a bookish looking man, pretty brown skin, nice glasses–kinda professorial. He’s handsome in a bookwormy sorta way. Mel digs bookworms sometimes. Bookworm looks at Mel’s perfectly pedicured toes and his eyes light up. Mel briefly wonders what it is with men and her feet…

Bookworm smiles and says “How ya doin’?”

Mel smiles back. “Great. Thanks. How are you?”

Mel and Bookworm exchange pleasantries. Mel goes back to browsing the humor section.

BW: Have you heard of Louis Joliet?

Mel: No? Is he an author? (Mel briefly wonders if maybe this was BW’s way of introducing himself…)

BW: Yeah. He’s looking him up for me. I haven’t been able to find him.

Mel: Ah.

Mel goes back to browsing.

BW: You sure are pretty.

Mel starts laughing. Blushes demurely.

Mel: Um, thanks.

BW: You gotta man?

Mel bites the inside of her cheek. Must hear that again. “Pardon?”

BW: You gotta man?

Mel: laughing now Oh honey….yeah, I gotta man.

Really? In BN? That’s the best you could do?

Epic Fail.

I didn’t die in my sleep

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But the Grim Reaper did come for a visit. He’s really quite pleasant, for a bony, ashy, stinky, soul-stealing void of a death kisser.

I really thought I might die last night. You see, I tried a NEW THING AT THE GYM because I need to change up my workouts. I have a goal to meet. My birthday is in 1 month, I want to lose another 12 lbs by then. So I’ve met with Cute Little Trainer Boy for some tips and he advised me to try this NEW THING AT THE GYM.

POWERHOUSE 90

It’s a class. If you’ll click the link above, you’ll see exactly how well I did in yesterday’s class. Here’s a hint:
Needless to say, It’s going to take a lot more classes, and a lot more humiliation before I can call myself the master of the Powerhouse 90 Arm Class.

Anyway, back to my new BFF–Grim. See, after class, I came home and collapsed. I had some Advil for dinner, washed it down with 1.5 liters of water (I’m not joking. My bladder wished I was joking when I got up to pee 14 million times last night) and I ate a banana.

I went to bed a little before 10:30. Jon Stewart was still on TV, totally railing on some dude and I wanted to watch but my body told me it was time to die. So I gave in. It was my time.

That’s when Grim came to visit. He said I was a good little girl to drink all my water and take my Advil and eat that banana. And because I had done those very smart things, he would let me live.

My head told him it was okay to take our soul, we had the Bird Flu and were gonna die soon anyway. I told Head to put a sock in it. Head said she would if I started to call her Harriet like she asked. I don’t understand my head at all.

Grim was very sweet. He rubbed my back while I fell asleep. I asked him if that was some super sekrit soul-stealing technique but he swore it wasn’t. He swore that if I stole his soul, I would know it.

As I drifted off, Grim asked if I planned to do another class. I mumbled something like “Probably,” and Harriet the Head screamed bloody murder. Grim said I might want to take it easy because if I did too many classes, then one night, he might have to pay me a real death-kiss visit.

I might have to take that under advisement.

Conversations in Mel’s head

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Y’all wanna know what it’s like to be me? Here’s some snippets of conversationsI had with myself yesterday.

I apologize in advance.

Head: I hurt and am filling up with snot.
Me: I know.
Head: What are you going to do about it?
Me: I don’t know. Take a Claritin and hope it’s all better tomorrow.
Head: You’re not going to the gym, right?
Me: Wrong.
Head: Dammit, I don’t wanna go spreading my germs everywhere.
Me: We washes the equipment after we uses it, precious. Besides, maybe Evil Barbie Hair Girl is there and we can sneezes on her and gives her the Bird Flu.
Head: Sounds promising. But we don’t have the Bird Flu.
Me: But maybe we will.
Head: *rolling eyes*
Me: I saw that.

At the gym:

Head: There’s Evil Barbie Hair Girl, go sneeze on her.
Me: It would be wasted, we don’t have the Bird Flu. I can tell.
Head: But, if it’s a good juicy sneeze, I bet you’ll lose another pound.
Me: Good call.
*ACHOO*

This morning on the scale:
Me: You lied.
Head: It was a theory that we disproved.
Me: Shut up, McScientist.

Last night I twittered:

[Mel]<— haz a worry! *gasp* trying to think of a blog topic for tomorrow and is afeared she may be out of funny!

Here was the conversation that followed:

Head: Really? Really? You think you’re out of funny.
Me: Maybe. I just don’t feel funny.
Head: That’s the Bird Flu talking.
Me: We don’t have the Bird Flu.
Head: I think maybe we’re developing it.
Me: I think we’re developing Multiple-Personality-Disorder. Maybe I should give you a name instead of just calling you head.
Head: I like the name Harriet.
Me: I’m not calling you Harriet.
Head: It was just a suggestion. Besides, shouldn’t I get to name myself.
Me: No. You’re my head, I get to name you. I always liked the name Zoe.
Head: lalalalalalalalalalalala I can’t hear you.
Me: Let me try this out. Shut up, Zoe.
Head: I’m only responding to Head or Harriet. Lalalalalalalalalalalalalala
Me: Hm. Zoe isn’t working for me. Kalliope? No, too complicated. Maybe I should call you Einstein since you’ve been so good at testing theories lately.
Head: I could compromise and go for Madame Curie.
Me: Okay, Madame Curie. You’ve got a deal.
Head: Maybe just call me Madam.
Me: Maybe I should go to bed.
Head: Maybe you’re right. Take some benadryl first.
Me: Goodnight, Madam.
Head: Goodnight, Nutjob.
Me: I’m going to let that slide because we have the Bird Flu.
Head: Thanks.

teach my ass, Melissa

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Dear Person from Germany who googled Teach my ass Melissa,

I’m going to need a little bit more direction. What exactly would you like me to teach your ass? Does your ass have something special it would like to learn?

I must admit, I am a very good teacher. I take my time with each lesson, make sure the student is fully apprised of the subject and I painstakingly teach, and reteach until the pupil can pass the test with flying colors. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.

So your ass is in the right hands. But the problem is, I have no idea what lessons your ass would like to learn. So I’ve taken this opportunity to work up a list of potential subjects. Please let me know what your ass would like to learn.

  • how to eat with chopsticks: admittedly, this will be a tough lesson for me, as I have not mastered the art of chopsticks. I can do it, but it ain’t pretty. However, if this is what your ass chooses to learn, I will gladly do my best to teach it.
  • how to prepare foie gras: Um, yeah. sorry. That won’t be happening. I just learned what foie gras is during the last season of Top Chef. Your ass is on its own.
  • how to be a ninja: I don’t do stealth and I don’t do ninja. But I’ve got the name and number of a guy who does. if this is what you want, email me and I’ll put you two in touch.
  • Algebra: um, sorry. Your ass is striking out with me if you want to learn algebra. Mel is a firm believer that the alphabet and the numerical systems should be kept separate. Letters and Numbers do not equal more numbers.
  • how to be a milf: now we’re talking. I’m pretty sure I can teach your ass a little bit in the way of milfing, but it’s a lot of work. Is your ass up for the challenge?
  • how to text and drive: I would almost never do that! *have your ass contact me privately*
  • how to write a damn good book: THAT I can teach your ass. LMAO

Okay, these are just a few things your ass might be interested in learning. If your ass has something else in mind, please let me know.

Thanks for your interest. Now, in the mean time, I offer you this video on how to be a Ninja, free of charge. Watch it. You won’t be sorry.

“Judy Chop!” and “Don’t go ninjain’ nobody that don’t need ninjain'”

open hearts? or T-n-A?

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Okay, am I the only one?

Kay Jewelers and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman Jane Seymore have teamed up with this new “Open Hearts” jewelry.

Seriously. Am I the only person who sees this design and thinks, “Tits and Ass.”

Do you see it? Or is it just me? That is totally Tits and Ass. I don’t care who you are. I know you see it.

If I’m being honest, I have to admit that I kinda want that to be my ass. I mean, look how perfect and round it is. Dammit. It’s the ass of my #1 enemy at the gym, Barbie Hair Girl. I now hate that ass. Stupid Dr. Quinn and her perfect ass necklace. Not nice. Not fair. And why the hell would I want to wear Barbie Hair Girl’s ass around my neck? I wouldn’t.

I like the idea behind the design, but really? I just don’t see open hearts. I see Tits and Ass. And trust me when I say, I have plenty of both, I don’t need a necklace to prove it.

Dear stoopidMen,
Do not buy this for your wife/girlfriend/lover/mistress/friend that is girl.

It will just remind her of her big tits and ass…or her lack thereof.

Get her something much more personal. Like a card that says what you can’t, or make her a CD of y’all’s favorite songs, or cook her dinner, or clean her house, or just take the kids out for a night so she can read/sleep/play tiddly-winks go to bed early. But don’t get her the T-n-A necklace. It’s just not right.

I’m over at Fictionistas today, expanding on my gift theory. Head over if you want to hear more.

a moment in my head

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I dreamed last night that I was trying to catch a ghost, in a basket, and the only way to lure him there was to sing Tanya Tucker songs.

Today’s moment of WTF was brought to you by Mel’s head.

Of course, you know that means I woke up singing Delta Dawn, right?

You’re Welcome. Again.

Am I the only one watching this for the fashion tips?

ETA:
I had to post this link here. I found this blog of Dirty Limericks based on Washington State Town names. I totally stole it from the Smart Bitches, but it was too good not to share. NSFW but totally funny as hell.

are you a burrower?

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When I sleep, I tend to flip to my stomach, kick a leg up, and burrow under a pillow. Actually, sometimes I can’t go to sleep if I don’t have a pillow over my head. (Which is really ironic since one of my irrational fears is suffocating.)

I don’t know why I do this. I used to think it started when I got married and Fishdog watched a lot of TV in bed and I would cover my head to block out the light/sound. But I think that’s just when I started noticing myself doing it.

What’s even funnier? Both of my kids are burrowers.
Above is Rader. Yes, he’s buried in there. Sound asleep.
Below is Ian. This is how I find him every morning. He sleeps with a minimum of 3 pillows and he digs in like he’s hibernating for the winter.
So, is sleeping style inherited? Is there some weird recessive gene for burrowing. Should I get out my Punnett Square and start playing?Hmmm. Would Burrowing be a dominant trait since both boys are burrowers? Fishdog definitely isn’t a burrower, but he could be a ‘burrower’ gene carrier. Crap, I can’t remember. I do know that genetics was about the only part of science I enjoyed. It must’ve been if I could remember Punnett Square.Did you inherit anything quirky from your folks or did your kids inherit something quirky from you? And do you think it was nature or nurture that caused it?