Sleepy Nonsense

Sunday night, I fell asleep on the couch with the TV on, as is my habit.
Sadly, no, it wasn't any form of the Olympics . . . I WISH it had been the Olympics. I LOVE the Olympics. Unfortunately, when I say "TV" I mean "the Netflix Instant account via the Wii hooked into what could be a TV if we had cable, satellite, or even a bloody antenna." Normally, this wouldn't bother us a bit, but . . . um . . . this is the Olympics. I'd kinda like to watch those . . . so . . . internet streaming? Yes, I think I might.

Anyways, so, here I am, unconscious. I mean, I'm out COLD. When I sleep, I sleep hard, and I sleep through anything. Bloody corpse, really.
So, the dear hubs see me curled up and, very likely snoring (have you ever woken yourself up due to the random, off-key, thundering SNORE?? It's a trend I'm beginning to notice, and I don't like it, no, not one bit). He decides it would be best to wake me so I can stumble into my real bed, sleep more soundly (if that's possible), and wake up cheery and on time (ha. ha. ha.). He pats me on the shoulder, whispers my name, squeezes my hand.
Nothing.
He says my name a little louder, pats more firmly.
My eyes pop open, and I glare at him, exclaiming in utmost urgency. "Ohmycatspopcornehnehehcats . . . ." and fall back asleep.
Chris is somewhere between shock and laughter.  He pokes me again.
"Gottamufflerscatssleepmorningehmehmehmeh . . ."
Now, he's dying.  Neither of us know what I was trying to communicate or why . . . but I THINK I was trying to say, quite clearly, "I beg your pardon, my good sir, but would you PLEASE leave me alone and let me sleep? Thank you."
Or maybe not.
"Sarah, babe, you need to go to bed," Chris says, trying to subdue the rising guffaws.
Somehow, I manage to get up off the couch, stomp/stumble into the bedroom, and collapse in bed. Might I add that I was muttering mumbo jumbo the entire way.

Lord only knows the dire message my subconscious was trying to send . . .

On another note:"The Woman in Black" is downright terrifying.
And, I'll have you know, I do not scare easily in "horror" films, but this scared the bejeezes out of me.

Well, Mr. Radcliffe, don't you look dapper? Too bad you're going to practically pee your pants with fright for the next couple of hours . . . geez louise . . .AND STOP FOLLOWING STRANGE NOISES! GOSH!
[source]

Mostly because it had dolls. God, dolls. Am I the only person royally weirded out by porcelain figures of overdressed young floozies and humanoid apes playing cymbals? AM I?!?! Because, really, my GOSH.
Now I have to sleep with all the lights on . . . and salt . . . lots and lots of salt . . .