Showing posts with label Hauntini. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hauntini. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
WTF Wednesday Night 8:43 PM
There are no words. I truly thought I couldn't dislike these two people more, but as it turns out, I can.
Courtesy of Dlisted
Friday, October 31, 2008
In the Shadows 9:35 PM
I think I have the dubious honor of collecting the most paranormal experiences of any of the Smartinis. At the time I wrote that post, I was still living in the house on Grace Street, and I couldn't quite recount the things that happened in that house. It made them too real, and I figured if I didn't say them, then I could dismiss them. I certainly didn't have the same number of encounters that I had in college, but I did have some...including one story I've never told...until now.
When you came into the house at Grace Street, you were in a small, open foyer with an apartment on your left and right. The house, built in 1818, was converted into these apartment units in the 1920s. Past the apartment on the right was the beginning of the staircase - just four steps to a landing and then a full pivot to go up the next flight of 8 or 9 steps. And then another landing, another pivot, another 4 or 5 steps to the second story landing. My apartment door was on the left.
The staircase went up the core of the house, so there were no windows. It was painted this horrible mauve color and lit with a few wall sconces. I remember that it was dark outside - late in the day in the wintertime - and so the hallway was extraordinarily dark. I was unlocking my door when I saw movement out of the corner of my left eye. I turned and saw on the far wall a shadow. And not just any shadow.
I saw the fully formed shadow of a woman...her silhouette was turned forward at first as though she was on the landing below me facing the wall, and then it turned to the side and started bobbing down the stairs. I could that the dress she wore must have had a fitted bodice and then a full skirt. And she wore a mob cap and her hair was curled. She moved swiftly and silently down the stairs until she was swallowed in the shadow of the landing. She made no sound - no whispers, no sound of swishing skirts or boot heels on the wooden stairs.
And all of that - thought it stopped my heart and raised the hair on my neck - probably happened in about 5 seconds. The blink of an eye. And then she was gone.
I saw her just that one time, but I remember it so clearly - I can still see that shadow on the wall. And after that, I wondered if the strange shadow that seemed to block the light in the kitchen when I had my back to it and briefly cease the reflection of the pendulum in the glass cabinets over head...wasn't the lady in the staircase. Because the kitchen was the only room in the house that ever scared me and that ever made me feel - in those eerie, shadowy moments - like maybe I wasn't alone.
Happy Halloween, my lovelies....
When you came into the house at Grace Street, you were in a small, open foyer with an apartment on your left and right. The house, built in 1818, was converted into these apartment units in the 1920s. Past the apartment on the right was the beginning of the staircase - just four steps to a landing and then a full pivot to go up the next flight of 8 or 9 steps. And then another landing, another pivot, another 4 or 5 steps to the second story landing. My apartment door was on the left.
The staircase went up the core of the house, so there were no windows. It was painted this horrible mauve color and lit with a few wall sconces. I remember that it was dark outside - late in the day in the wintertime - and so the hallway was extraordinarily dark. I was unlocking my door when I saw movement out of the corner of my left eye. I turned and saw on the far wall a shadow. And not just any shadow.
I saw the fully formed shadow of a woman...her silhouette was turned forward at first as though she was on the landing below me facing the wall, and then it turned to the side and started bobbing down the stairs. I could that the dress she wore must have had a fitted bodice and then a full skirt. And she wore a mob cap and her hair was curled. She moved swiftly and silently down the stairs until she was swallowed in the shadow of the landing. She made no sound - no whispers, no sound of swishing skirts or boot heels on the wooden stairs.
And all of that - thought it stopped my heart and raised the hair on my neck - probably happened in about 5 seconds. The blink of an eye. And then she was gone.
I saw her just that one time, but I remember it so clearly - I can still see that shadow on the wall. And after that, I wondered if the strange shadow that seemed to block the light in the kitchen when I had my back to it and briefly cease the reflection of the pendulum in the glass cabinets over head...wasn't the lady in the staircase. Because the kitchen was the only room in the house that ever scared me and that ever made me feel - in those eerie, shadowy moments - like maybe I wasn't alone.
Happy Halloween, my lovelies....
A Definite Chill in the Otherwise Warm Springtime Air 3:15 PM
Our tour guide eventually arrived, a middle-aged woman wearing black and gray, hair pulled back into a tight bun, and carrying a lantern. The group that night was a small one, and together we traipsed from haunted place to haunted place, all within a five-block or so radius, and all entirely too close to my apartment at the time. This place is just haunted, y’all.
We stopped by a haunted bar, a waterfront restaurant, an alleyway next to another bar, learning from our most excellent guide of all the spirits within, and then moved on to a few downtown houses. Things began to get especially creepy standing in front of a house where a ghost was known to be spotted in one of the darkened, third-floor windows. Did anyone see movement? Did anyone not? We couldn’t be entirely sure. In another house, the ghost of a woman who died in childbirth haunted the house to look after her own baby, and now allegedly looks after the children of others. Then, a graveyard, haunted by the ghost of a man buried alive. We were so close to my apartment by then, couldn’t we have just broken off from the group and ran home like bats out of hell? No, no we could not.
We then arrived at Gallows Hill. An empty lot next to a big house that had been converted into an office building for an architect’s firm. Why was it called Gallows Hill? Because back in the day, lots and lots of people were hanged there. And lots of people, without family or friends living in the area, were buried on site. Some of these people apparently had unfinished business. None of the ghosts in the house have been documented as mean, per se, but they are definitely present. Mirrors frost over on hot summer days, and a window upstairs is often spotted with the word “HELP” written in the same sort of ice on the glass. Certain smells with seemingly no source have been noted in the house: pipe tobacco and baking bread. Furniture moves from one spot to the other. A girl staying in the house once upon a time felt a ghost’s fingers running through her hair. In response to the site and the tour guide’s story, Ghost Tour walkers have been known to experience chills, a strong feeling of unease, or even sickness. Babies have cried, women have vomited into the azalea bushes upon stepping onto the property.
As for M and I, we were of course sufficiently creeped out by the stories, and me particularly creeped out thinking the my apartment was no less than two blocks from these premises. Then M remembered her earlier trolley tour, which passed by the site, and the hair on the back of her neck had stood up—just before the trolley tour guide had announced they were on “Hangman’s Hill.” There was something about this place, for sure. We were cold, and there was the prevailing sense as our tour guide continued to speak that we just needed to leave. Which of course we did not.
Well eventually, yes, we moved on again with the tour, which ended shortly thereafter, and made our way back home, thoroughly spooked by our surroundings, which we now knew all too much about. Clearly, being five years ago, I need to take this tour again and offer a follow-up report. Do you dare me?
Happy Halloween!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
"I didn't squeeze your hand." 8:44 PM
It is August 2002. J and I are in Edinburgh, Scotland for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The Fringe Festival is sort of an independent, "underground" arts festival that originated as an alternative to the "official" Edinburgh International Festival - with fancy-schmancy dancing, plays, and music for the upper eschelon.
At the Fringe Festival, you can go to a million and one 50-75 min productions. You can see everything from stand-up comedy, to one-act plays, to musical acts, to random street theatre. The week that we are there is the "pre-festival" week which means that many of the acts are half price, occasionally free. Thus, even though we must adhere to a strict backpacker's budget, we can still see loads of stuff.
Naturally, everything we want to see is always clear across the city from the thing we are currently viewing. I'm not joking. The number of times we criss-cross the city center must have made world records of some sort.
One night, in addition to our full slate of productions, we decide to tour a little bit of the city as well. Only this time, we are going underground.
That's right. Back in the day, at some point, a portion of the city was underground. They call it the Vaults. Originally it was meant as a storage area for local businesses. Before long, however, the underground facilities became slum housing for the poor, lasting for decades. The vaults are damp, dark, and more than a little bit creepy.
Our tour begins outside one of the vault entryways where we meet our guide and the approximately 12 other people along for the ride. We learn a bit of history, none of which I retain because all I want to do is get inside and see this thing already. Pretty soon, I get my wish.
It is still light outside as we make our way into the tunnel leading toward the vault. As soon as the door clangs shut, we find ourselves in complete darkness. Our guide breaks out a flashlight as we traipse through the hallway and into a bigger room where lighting has been wired.
At this moment our guide informs us to watch out for ghosts. I will cop to feeling mildly apprehensive, but shrug the comment off as tourist schtick, preparing to roll my eyes at further mentions of the paranormal. It's not that I necessarily don't believe, because I'm sort of agnostic about ghosts. It's just that we are a rather large group, in the late afternoon, and well, it's just extremely unlikely a ghost is going to pop out and scream "BOO!" at all of us.
I am pleased to find that the vaults offer a break from the warm August air outside. Although it is cool, by no means is it actually cold. In fact, the temperature feels rather pleasant. Our group is composed of seemingly normal people without the dreaded "talker" that can be found in some tour group settings. We all listen intently, ask the requisite questions, and "ooh" and "ahh" and "eww" at the appropriate times.
We have been in the vaults about half an hour when we reach one of the larger rooms. A semi-circle has formed around our guide as he describes the social nature of this room. People used to gather here, bladdy, blah, blah, kept close for warmth, blah, blather, blather, and oh, this room has lots of ghosts.
Apparently there is the requisite little boy ghost, designed to give us all the heebie-jeebies. What is it about child ghosts that are just disturbing? The guide continues with his ghost tales, now describing a shoe-maker/mender spirit who is also very popular with the tourists.
My interest is piqued, I'll admit, but more for history's sake than anything else. I study the room intently, trying to imagine living down here for years at a time and how horrid it must have been. The walls completely made of stone, no windows, the putrid smell, the drafty breeze, the cobbler in the corner.
Um, what?
And I see it. A shadowy male figure takes form in the corner. I can barely make him out, but he is sitting cross-legged.
I blink, because this can't really be what I see.
And he is gone. I keep my mouth shut because I don't want to be that tourist, the one who falls prey to the spooky stories and the suggestive lighting, the one the rest of the group pokes fun at the remainder of the journey.
But I cannot lie. I am a little shaken. The temperature has plummeted, and I don't want to go any further. As the rest of the group moves forward, I purposefully hang back a little, trying to decide if I should mention this "apparition" to J.
Before I make my decision, he irritatedly asks, "Why did you squeeze my hand so hard?"
"I'm didn't squeeze your hand," I reply.
"Yeah, you did. A few seconds ago. Like, really hard."
"Did not."
And he knows. He looks at me and reads it all over my face. "You saw something. I can tell just by looking at you. Are you okay? WHAT DID YOU SEE??!!"
Sheepishly I admit to possibly, maybe, but really definitely not seeing some sort of figure in the corner. It was just the lighting and the stupid stories, I insist. But he is having none of it. He is both elated and extremely jealous. He was dying to see a ghost, and now I have but am in complete denial. He wants details, all the details. I tell him what I know, and he goes off and immediately asks the guide where the damn cobbler ghost most often manifests.
In that corner where I saw him, naturally.
To this day, I remain skeptical about whether I did or did not see a ghost. J adamantly maintains that, yes, I have witnessed souls from beyond. I just don't know, though. The circumstances were so. . .shady (for lack of better word) and completely staged so that anyone could interpret the shadows on the wall as a ghost.
Then again, there was my face afterward, my automatic response of squeezing J's hand, the sudden chill that overcame me, and this account from some complete stranger, that I found on the internet.
Our guide, Fran, was a wonderful storyteller. She explained life in the rooms, what business had taken place and what articles were found after the excavation started. She also noted several spirits were frequently reported by visitors, but declined specifics at that point in order not to slant our experience. In one room she note a cobbler was often reported in one corner working and watching. I noticed it was the same corner where my husband had just moved to. Not a malevolent ghost apparently and while my husband did not feel or see anything, another woman in our party did have a particular feeling of a presence. You can imagine our shock after we took a look at the digital pictures he shot from the other side of the room! Originally the object had been to capture the guide telling the story of the room with the others looking on. His photo showed the whitish form of the cobbler, seated with arm outstretched as if reclining and listening to the stories! No matter how he attempted to touch up the picture, as if to remove a reflection or motion, it just sharpened the image. It had depth, especially near the ground and wall and could not be a shadow. The facial features are generally clear. There was no movement of air in the room, no strange markings on the wall. What else could it be?
At the Fringe Festival, you can go to a million and one 50-75 min productions. You can see everything from stand-up comedy, to one-act plays, to musical acts, to random street theatre. The week that we are there is the "pre-festival" week which means that many of the acts are half price, occasionally free. Thus, even though we must adhere to a strict backpacker's budget, we can still see loads of stuff.
Naturally, everything we want to see is always clear across the city from the thing we are currently viewing. I'm not joking. The number of times we criss-cross the city center must have made world records of some sort.
One night, in addition to our full slate of productions, we decide to tour a little bit of the city as well. Only this time, we are going underground.
That's right. Back in the day, at some point, a portion of the city was underground. They call it the Vaults. Originally it was meant as a storage area for local businesses. Before long, however, the underground facilities became slum housing for the poor, lasting for decades. The vaults are damp, dark, and more than a little bit creepy.
Our tour begins outside one of the vault entryways where we meet our guide and the approximately 12 other people along for the ride. We learn a bit of history, none of which I retain because all I want to do is get inside and see this thing already. Pretty soon, I get my wish.
It is still light outside as we make our way into the tunnel leading toward the vault. As soon as the door clangs shut, we find ourselves in complete darkness. Our guide breaks out a flashlight as we traipse through the hallway and into a bigger room where lighting has been wired.
At this moment our guide informs us to watch out for ghosts. I will cop to feeling mildly apprehensive, but shrug the comment off as tourist schtick, preparing to roll my eyes at further mentions of the paranormal. It's not that I necessarily don't believe, because I'm sort of agnostic about ghosts. It's just that we are a rather large group, in the late afternoon, and well, it's just extremely unlikely a ghost is going to pop out and scream "BOO!" at all of us.
I am pleased to find that the vaults offer a break from the warm August air outside. Although it is cool, by no means is it actually cold. In fact, the temperature feels rather pleasant. Our group is composed of seemingly normal people without the dreaded "talker" that can be found in some tour group settings. We all listen intently, ask the requisite questions, and "ooh" and "ahh" and "eww" at the appropriate times.
We have been in the vaults about half an hour when we reach one of the larger rooms. A semi-circle has formed around our guide as he describes the social nature of this room. People used to gather here, bladdy, blah, blah, kept close for warmth, blah, blather, blather, and oh, this room has lots of ghosts.
Apparently there is the requisite little boy ghost, designed to give us all the heebie-jeebies. What is it about child ghosts that are just disturbing? The guide continues with his ghost tales, now describing a shoe-maker/mender spirit who is also very popular with the tourists.
My interest is piqued, I'll admit, but more for history's sake than anything else. I study the room intently, trying to imagine living down here for years at a time and how horrid it must have been. The walls completely made of stone, no windows, the putrid smell, the drafty breeze, the cobbler in the corner.
Um, what?
And I see it. A shadowy male figure takes form in the corner. I can barely make him out, but he is sitting cross-legged.
I blink, because this can't really be what I see.
And he is gone. I keep my mouth shut because I don't want to be that tourist, the one who falls prey to the spooky stories and the suggestive lighting, the one the rest of the group pokes fun at the remainder of the journey.
But I cannot lie. I am a little shaken. The temperature has plummeted, and I don't want to go any further. As the rest of the group moves forward, I purposefully hang back a little, trying to decide if I should mention this "apparition" to J.
Before I make my decision, he irritatedly asks, "Why did you squeeze my hand so hard?"
"I'm didn't squeeze your hand," I reply.
"Yeah, you did. A few seconds ago. Like, really hard."
"Did not."
And he knows. He looks at me and reads it all over my face. "You saw something. I can tell just by looking at you. Are you okay? WHAT DID YOU SEE??!!"
Sheepishly I admit to possibly, maybe, but really definitely not seeing some sort of figure in the corner. It was just the lighting and the stupid stories, I insist. But he is having none of it. He is both elated and extremely jealous. He was dying to see a ghost, and now I have but am in complete denial. He wants details, all the details. I tell him what I know, and he goes off and immediately asks the guide where the damn cobbler ghost most often manifests.
In that corner where I saw him, naturally.
To this day, I remain skeptical about whether I did or did not see a ghost. J adamantly maintains that, yes, I have witnessed souls from beyond. I just don't know, though. The circumstances were so. . .shady (for lack of better word) and completely staged so that anyone could interpret the shadows on the wall as a ghost.
Then again, there was my face afterward, my automatic response of squeezing J's hand, the sudden chill that overcame me, and this account from some complete stranger, that I found on the internet.
Our guide, Fran, was a wonderful storyteller. She explained life in the rooms, what business had taken place and what articles were found after the excavation started. She also noted several spirits were frequently reported by visitors, but declined specifics at that point in order not to slant our experience. In one room she note a cobbler was often reported in one corner working and watching. I noticed it was the same corner where my husband had just moved to. Not a malevolent ghost apparently and while my husband did not feel or see anything, another woman in our party did have a particular feeling of a presence. You can imagine our shock after we took a look at the digital pictures he shot from the other side of the room! Originally the object had been to capture the guide telling the story of the room with the others looking on. His photo showed the whitish form of the cobbler, seated with arm outstretched as if reclining and listening to the stories! No matter how he attempted to touch up the picture, as if to remove a reflection or motion, it just sharpened the image. It had depth, especially near the ground and wall and could not be a shadow. The facial features are generally clear. There was no movement of air in the room, no strange markings on the wall. What else could it be?
Spiritual presence 6:07 PM
I'm not sure if this is the type of story Niki was looking for when she assigned this week's Special, but it's what immediately came to mind and I haven't been able to come up with anything else. I'm not sure how well I will be able to retell it; it's such a sensory experience...but, enough with the excuses. . .
When I was in the 8th grade, my grandmother moved into the house next door to us (it was actually fellow bar maid, Ashley's grandmother's house prior to my grandmother occupying it, ironically enough). I was going through the moody teenage years and tired of my family, so I would stay at her house most nights. One night, I come over and the TV sounded oddly -alarmingly - loud, even for her. I normally would call out to announce my presence, but I didn't for some reason. I walked through the house, quietly taking things in and feeling a weird sense of alarm or just knowledge in the air that something was amiss. I found my grandmother on the floor in the kitchen. She had died of a heart attack. While making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (that always gets me for some reason - that the loaf of bread and PB were still open, the knife on the floor). After running to her side (in a strange slow motion, fast pan away like in a movie, I was suddenly watching from outside the kitchen window, not actively participating) and making the call to my parents, not knowing exactly what to say, hearing my mother's desperate cry to my father, just his name, but there was so much emotion, like she was pleading, that he'd somehow be able to come over and fix what I had just told her, we were sitting on the couch, crying and suddenly, in between my parents, the tears stopped for me and I felt this rush of warmth and peace. I can't really explain it any better, but I knew it was my grandmother saying goodbye and telling me it would be ok. That I would be ok. It was only an instant and like nothing I've ever experienced before, but it's still a source of comfort to think back on. I know this post is a little. . .revealing, but it really is about a positive experience for me. A powerful encounter and something I really believe in.
When I was in the 8th grade, my grandmother moved into the house next door to us (it was actually fellow bar maid, Ashley's grandmother's house prior to my grandmother occupying it, ironically enough). I was going through the moody teenage years and tired of my family, so I would stay at her house most nights. One night, I come over and the TV sounded oddly -alarmingly - loud, even for her. I normally would call out to announce my presence, but I didn't for some reason. I walked through the house, quietly taking things in and feeling a weird sense of alarm or just knowledge in the air that something was amiss. I found my grandmother on the floor in the kitchen. She had died of a heart attack. While making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (that always gets me for some reason - that the loaf of bread and PB were still open, the knife on the floor). After running to her side (in a strange slow motion, fast pan away like in a movie, I was suddenly watching from outside the kitchen window, not actively participating) and making the call to my parents, not knowing exactly what to say, hearing my mother's desperate cry to my father, just his name, but there was so much emotion, like she was pleading, that he'd somehow be able to come over and fix what I had just told her, we were sitting on the couch, crying and suddenly, in between my parents, the tears stopped for me and I felt this rush of warmth and peace. I can't really explain it any better, but I knew it was my grandmother saying goodbye and telling me it would be ok. That I would be ok. It was only an instant and like nothing I've ever experienced before, but it's still a source of comfort to think back on. I know this post is a little. . .revealing, but it really is about a positive experience for me. A powerful encounter and something I really believe in.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Crossing Over, With Megan 1:41 PM
If I hadn't been drinking that night, I would have never believed it. But, as is usually the case, I had been drinking, and now I'm a believer.
I was way out in the boonies at a friend's house, partaking in a little girls get together to celebrate the visit of my friend's aunt from New Orleans. An aunt that reportedly could talk to spirits, you see. Being a bit of a skeptic, I was all on board for the special hand holding and spirit talking that we were promised that night with Aunt Spirit Talker. This should be hilarious, I thought, since I used to get a big kick out of the Crossing Over, With John Edward sham.
The first two spirits were meant for others at the table, and as I listed to each one I mentally challenged each connection, waving them off as coincidental or so broad that just about anything would have fit the bill. Oh, you're seeing money associated with the letter M? Who couldn't draw some association with that? Puh-lease, Y'ALL ARE BELIEVING THIS B.S.?!
As luck (or the spirits?) would have it, Aunt Spirit Talker starts calling forth a new spirit, one that is showing her the letter L. Nobody takes the bait, so she continues.
"L? I'm sorry spirit, I don't underst.... oh, EL! The sound EL, possibly someone's name? Elaine? Elenore?"
Give me a break, I think, of course my friend has slipped to AST that my daughter's name is Ella! Then she offers "Ellen?"
Naturally I have to speak up and mention that yes, I have a daughter named Ella but um, no, she's not dead. To which AST says that she is being shown the color red. EXCUSE ME? WTF IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?
"It's a good red, it's a good red!" AST tells me, then veers off course just a bit saying "But maybe Ella's not quite right... It's the letter L. Do you know someone who is departed with the letter L?"
Yes, actually, Ella's great grandmother's name was Lucy. She died about this time last year.
"Lucy? Is this Lucy? YES! It's Lucy. I'm still seeing the color red... And a sidewalk, maybe? Some type of path..."
I don't know? (By now I'm starting to get caught up in the spirits, alcoholic and otherwise, and I really, really want to make a sidewalk connection! Did Lucy and I ever take a walk? Go to a strip mall? Anywhere with a sidewalk?!) I don't know!
And then AST says it. "Something fun and red, for a sidewalk... A pogo stick? Or bike, maybe?"
A BIKE! OMG, A BIKE! THIS MORNING I ALMOST BOUGHT ELLA A RED BIKE!
"Lucy wants you to buy her the bike."
You bet your bottom I bought Ella that bike. The only person that knew I had spent time wandering the aisles of Wal-Mart that morning and had almost, almost bought a little red tricycle was my husband. And when I told his mom (Lucy's daughter) the story the next day she cried and told me that red was Lucy's favorite color.
So maybe all those people in the audience on Crossing Over aren't gullible saps after all! This is what I tell myself. And then I have a drink.
I was way out in the boonies at a friend's house, partaking in a little girls get together to celebrate the visit of my friend's aunt from New Orleans. An aunt that reportedly could talk to spirits, you see. Being a bit of a skeptic, I was all on board for the special hand holding and spirit talking that we were promised that night with Aunt Spirit Talker. This should be hilarious, I thought, since I used to get a big kick out of the Crossing Over, With John Edward sham.
The first two spirits were meant for others at the table, and as I listed to each one I mentally challenged each connection, waving them off as coincidental or so broad that just about anything would have fit the bill. Oh, you're seeing money associated with the letter M? Who couldn't draw some association with that? Puh-lease, Y'ALL ARE BELIEVING THIS B.S.?!
As luck (or the spirits?) would have it, Aunt Spirit Talker starts calling forth a new spirit, one that is showing her the letter L. Nobody takes the bait, so she continues.
"L? I'm sorry spirit, I don't underst.... oh, EL! The sound EL, possibly someone's name? Elaine? Elenore?"
Give me a break, I think, of course my friend has slipped to AST that my daughter's name is Ella! Then she offers "Ellen?"
Naturally I have to speak up and mention that yes, I have a daughter named Ella but um, no, she's not dead. To which AST says that she is being shown the color red. EXCUSE ME? WTF IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?
"It's a good red, it's a good red!" AST tells me, then veers off course just a bit saying "But maybe Ella's not quite right... It's the letter L. Do you know someone who is departed with the letter L?"
Yes, actually, Ella's great grandmother's name was Lucy. She died about this time last year.
"Lucy? Is this Lucy? YES! It's Lucy. I'm still seeing the color red... And a sidewalk, maybe? Some type of path..."
I don't know? (By now I'm starting to get caught up in the spirits, alcoholic and otherwise, and I really, really want to make a sidewalk connection! Did Lucy and I ever take a walk? Go to a strip mall? Anywhere with a sidewalk?!) I don't know!
And then AST says it. "Something fun and red, for a sidewalk... A pogo stick? Or bike, maybe?"
A BIKE! OMG, A BIKE! THIS MORNING I ALMOST BOUGHT ELLA A RED BIKE!
"Lucy wants you to buy her the bike."
You bet your bottom I bought Ella that bike. The only person that knew I had spent time wandering the aisles of Wal-Mart that morning and had almost, almost bought a little red tricycle was my husband. And when I told his mom (Lucy's daughter) the story the next day she cried and told me that red was Lucy's favorite color.
So maybe all those people in the audience on Crossing Over aren't gullible saps after all! This is what I tell myself. And then I have a drink.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Living out your Spiderman dreams 9:45 AM
I don’t know why this product from Brookstone amuses me so much. An air compressor gun to cast your spider webs for Halloween? Clearly the demographic here is 12-year-old boys… in the bodies of grown men. (Which, just to be clear, means all men.) For added entertainment, view the Very Serious video below the product description.
For 50 bucks, I think I’ll stick to hand-wrestling with my dollar-store spiders webs. But, I admit, the gun is kind of badass.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
So Disgusting, I Obviously Have to Try It 8:00 PM
I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a Jack-O-Lantern picture that made me shiver. It’s the rats, it’s totally the rats. Can’t stand ‘em, think they’re completely creepy—which is why it’s perfect for Halloween, no?
This idea brought to you by Martha Stewart.
