After I finished mourning my made-in-China American flag on Sunday, I took Junior to visit my friend, Sandy, in Assachusetts. I had an extra day to burn thanks to Labor Day; what better way to spend it than in the state that’s home to the world’s worst drivers?
Sandy’s other friend was also spending the night with her three-year-old daughter, Bella, who is Junior’s girlfriend.
Yah, that’s what he calls her. His girlfriend.
Am I ready? No. But they were lying in bed together and all hands stayed above the diaper line so I’m guessing I have a few years before we need to have the talk. Though if Miley Cyrus keeps pole dancing and the marketers succeed at funneling little girls into exotic dancing careers—which seems to be their master plan—I may only have a few months.
While the kids were canoodling on Sandy's bed, we admired the photo of her beloved Grandma Adele.
Sandy was in the midst of explaining how Grandma and Grandmpa Adele had met when suddenly Junior stopped, pointed to the picture and said, “Her grandma lives in the dirt*!”
“What, honey?” I asked.
“She lives in dirt. She's in dirt.”
Sandy grabbed my hand and shrieked, “What?? Grandma Adele is dead! He’s right. She lives in the dirt!”
“Ooooooooooooooh,” we all said.
“Does this mean Junior sees dead people?” I asked.
“It makes sense,” said Sandy. “His father is a ghostbuster.”
Everyone thought the prospect of Junior communing with dead people was great. Not me. My prenup specifically says only one ghosbuster in the family. I don’t care if Chuck gets slimed with ectoplasm. But not my baby—even if it is with Sandy's grandma's goop. She's cute and grandmotherly, sure, but she is...well, dead.
And hello, Haley Joel Osment was creepy. No one wants a toddler pulling at your shorts saying, "I see the dirt people."
After we put the kids to bed, we sat in the living room. Had some drinks. Shot the shit. We were about to put in a movie when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was white, glowing and moving slowly. I grabbed Sandy's leg.
“It’s an arm! Agggggggh! A floating arm!” I screamed. Everyone jumped.
Sure enough, there was a pale white arm reaching for the doorknob. The arm belonged to Bella. She wanted a glass of water.
The lesson? Chuck's ghostbusting is making me a nervous fucking wreck and if he doesn't get a TV show from it, I am making him trade in his thermal camera for a proper briefcase/toolbelt/I don't really care what it is as long as it has to do with the living (and making a living, for that matter).
Speaking of marital bliss, I'd like to announce the winner of the tungsten ring. It's Riley's Mis-Adventures. She may not want it after I slammed her home state, but I'm sure Grandma Adele will vouch for me in the Afterlife.
Or maybe not.
*I realize it's a sepia-toned photo and that that may account for the dirt thing but come in, it is eerie.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.