OMGOSH! OMGOSH! OMGOSH!
So much to do and say and show and tell!
But NO. DARN. TIME.
I'm a mother you know. With kids. And dogs. And hubs. And responsibilities. Not to mention people to see and places to go.
In fact I'm leaving in the morning to Mt. Carmel to get to the bottom of the ho-made pies dealio.
Oh, and to attend my Uncle Marty's funeral.
HOWEVER . . . I have started, and nearly finished, at least three riveting posts, which I haven't published because I'm not done saying what I need to say.
Do you think John Mayer would mind if I only said half of what I need to say?
Okay then, whoomp, there it is: (I mean, whoomp, here it is):
(Sorry, sometimes my subjects and verbs don't agree.)
Here are the half baked thoughts that tumbled from me a few days ago:
Remember how I told you everything I say is cold, hard, fact? Well, keep that in mind as you read this post because you're going to be sorely tempted--sorely, sorely tempted--to think I am using my imagination. But I'm not. Pinky swear. On a stack of Holy Bibles. I have NO imagination, but rather I am living proof that truth really is stranger than fiction.
I started this post with the intent of telling you about how I'm a ghost geek, but somewhere along the way I veered off into the Twilight Zone and forgot where I put my point. I'm sure I'll find it eventually, but for today, let's just roll with it.
Okay, so I dig ghosts. (In a good way.) I blame my dad to some extent because he was a ghost magnet. (In a bad way.) People say it was because he was a drug addict so his aura had little rips in it that ghosts could slip through.
Combine that with his religious zeal and we had our own special brand of Twilight Zone.
As a kid, I grew up on ghost stories, as if that wasn't out of the ordinary. In fact everything was presented to us kids as "the norm." Didn't everyone grow up with boa constrictors and pythons crawling out of their heating vents. Didn't everyone wake up with bites on their earlobes from their pet lab rats? Didn't all families have neighbors who boarded up the windows facing their home?
I mean, fer reals, didn't everyone have a father who brought King Cobra's home from India? And who took their children treasure hunting at the city dump? And who could cast out evil spirits from those who were tripping on LSD?
Okay, he sounds weird on paper, but who doesn't?
It's not his fault that people tripping on LSD came from miles around to have the evil cast out of them.
What can I say, my dad was a spiritual giant. Who loved blessing people back to normal. He also loved LSD so it seemed like a great way to combine interests.
My mom, on the other hand, wasn't too keen on the practice, mostly because evil spirits like LSD as much as sweet spirits. And they don't enjoy being interrupted while tripping. Cutting a trip short for an evil spirit can get ugly.
Once my dad really ticked a couple of evil spirits off while casting them out. According to the bedtime story, it was more like a hoard of evil spirits, all crammed into one hippie body, and all wailing and gnashing their teeth as they marched through our kitchen, across our creepy back porch, down our freezy cement stairs into the basement, past our fruit cellar and fiery furnace and into the bedroom where my apostate brother, Stephen and I lay sleeping soundly in our cribs.
Stephen, I'm sure, was dreaming of rainbows and butterflies at the time, with no intention of losing his faith later in life. I, on the other hand, was probably frozen in place, wide eyed, with all the hairs on my body standing at attention, bracing myself for the blow as the army of angry spirits descended upon me and began choking both me and Stephen out of our wits.
My mom saw the whole thing. Heard it too. And to this day stills swears on a stack of Holy Bibles that the lack of oxygen experienced in those few minutes is the reason I'm so dang strange today.
Her words, not mine.
Okay, I made that last part up. I'm not really strange. But the rest is all truth--albeit half the truth, since this is the part where I veered off and lost my point.
Hopefully I'll find it somewhere on the road to Mt. Carmel.
P.S. Raise your hand if you think I should write a book of geeky, ghostly stories.
P.S.S Raise your hand if you can't handle the truth and you're afeared of me now.
P.S.S.S Would it be off topic if I told you that I got some more flannel for the Magic Baby Quilt and asked you to come Check it out!