I’m not sure how random this is, but I desperately want to belong, so here’s my widget.
I’ve been keeping a secret. I made mention of it once on this blog, and only one person made reference to the reference, so I never brought it up again (sensitive? Who me?). But here it is: Chuck is a ghostbuster. And right now he’s in California shooting a pilot for a historical ghostbusting show that’s going to air on a major network in the fall.
After years of mocking Chuck for his ghostbusting, I’m now choking on my words. It’s worse than the chicken finger and bobby pins—300 times worse.
I have no interest in the paranormal, and over the years I’ve made that very clear to Chuck. I don’t want to commune with spirits and I sure as hell don’t want to walk around a cemetery in the middle of the night. At times I may have teased and taunted my husband for his strange hobby, but it was only out of love.
Besides, it’s not easy being with a ghostbuster. You have questions, like will our children have to be ghosts every year for Halloween? And if I die before Chuck, will he roam the earth in search of my flying orb?
My mother’s been coming over to watch Junior while I work. It’s nice of her to help, but I wish I could break up with her for awhile. Today she called me in a panic because she heard a loud thumping coming from upstairs. She begged me to come home and check it out.
Thankfully my boss is understanding—though I did not tell her I needed to run home because my mother believed there was an angry ghost in Chuck's manroom because she has been listening to too many of Chuck's ghost stories. I told my boss I had a leaky pipe.
When I pulled in the driveway, my mother and Junior were standing on the front lawn. In the rain.
“Something’s up there,” she cried.
Turns out the cat was stuck in the closet (yes, this monster) and was pounding on the door.
Is it any wonder I haven't taken her up on her offer to spend the night? Mother with overactive imagination + Chuck’s ghostbusting stories = misery for Mrs. Mullet.
So there you have it. I’ve aired my sheet with the holes for the eyes cut out. Random or not, life feels like the weirdest sitcom ever.
Keely, is your zombie free to do a playdate with my ectoplasm next week?
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