They just won’t.  While I’m not positive, I don’t think M&M’s or Reese’s Pieces will either.  Well, Reese’s Pieces were actually proven (and video documented) to lure an unsuspecting cute alien into a preteen’s boy house where he played with toys, hid in closets, eventually became sick, died, but came back to life.

Wow, I should tell my husband to feed me those next time I’m on my deathbed.

It might go something like this:

<cue sad music>

My husband, looking down at me lovingly, a tear in his eye threatening to fall, moves down to push away a lock of my hair from my forehead.

“I love you so much,” he sobs,” I don’t know what I’ll do without you.  You took such good care of me. Please don’t leave me.”

“Ree..pee..” I whisper, so tired.

“What honey? Reepee? Do you have to pee?”

“Rees…pees..” I struggle, coughing, nearing my end.

“Baby, I don’t know what you’re asking, do you want some peas? I don’t think the doctor really wants you to have peas.”  He’s looking so confused. Must. Get. Out. Lifesaving. Words.

I muster up all my strength. I bark out as loud as I can: “REESE’S PIECES NOW!”

“Candy? You want candy, sweetie? Um, ok?”  He leaves the room, head in his hands, wailing.

Now this story can go either way.  He can leave the room crying, knowing that I’ve completely lost it, I die, and two minutes later the doctor rushes in to tell him that they JUST found out that Reese’s Pieces will cure me,  and “Oh, what? She ASKED you for some and you didn’t give her any? YOU KILLED HER!”


He grabs some, runs back in, shoves a ton in my mouth, and I jump out of bed completely healed.

I’m hoping for the latter.

So anyway, I had a dream last night, and it was a doozy.  I have a lot of dreams and I tend to talk and let my husband know what’s going on.  Oftentimes, he apparently likes to just listen and goad me to see what I’ll say next.  I’m glad it’s funny to him since I’m waking him up.  Last night my dream consisted of the aliens of Sigourney Weaver fame, a bunch of kids I taught in my fourth grade class about six years ago, a teacher’s lounge with some couches, eighty pounds of Skittles, a curling iron, and a Big Mac.

My motley crew was trying to save the world from the aliens, and somehow my warped brain decided the last man standing would happen this way: me and a bunch of ten-year olds would lure the aliens to the teachers’ lounge where we would trip them into the room via curling iron cord and pelt them with Skittles until they died.  The Big Mac just sat on a table the whole time, its presence was a mystery. I woke up right before I became mom to an alien chest-monster.

Needless to say, and I mumbled this to my husband around 5:59 am: “Did you know Skittles won’t kill aliens?”

Maybe a barbacoa burrito bowl from Chipotle’s at 9:00 PM isn’t such a good idea.