French doors and ghost stories

A not so spooky evening

I lollygagged most of Saturday away. Come evening, I headed over to Anne and Katie’s apartment for a last hurrah in their digs as they prepare to bid farewell to the abode. It’s a cool place with hardwood floors and steam heat. A screened in porch, likely my favorite feature, accessible through double french doors, brought some cool autumn air inside.

As the beer was nearing gone and the last bottle of wine was opened, the stories got more off-color (pinko communists and gay-tight shirts were mentioned). Somehow the topic of urban legends came about, particularly appropriate for the season. Two folks went to Ohio University, which seems to be steeped in ghost lore.

The one that stuck:

A girl forgot a book while going to the library one night, and went back to her room to get it. She lived in a quad, those rooms four people share. In the bedroom there are two dressers with mirrors.

The lights were off and she just went in and picked up the book off the top of the dresser and left.

Hours later, she returned, there were police cars and an ambulance parked outside.

Her roommate was raped and killed. On the mirror, written in blood, it said – Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the lights.

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An intervention

Time out

Heather caught me online this morning, before I made it to the studio. She said it was too nice a day, we should “work” from her house. Dave was indifferent and agreed to play along. So I picked up a McGriddle and made my way out to her countryside abode.

I was suspicious of her motives, but driving away from the city on a day like this sounded good. Besides, Heather was being adamant.

“Is this an intervention?” I asked while we regarded a joint outside on the deck.

“What could we possibly intervene with you? Getting it up the butt too much?” (Heather has crude ideas about gay sex)

I laughed off the ass-crack, “I meant, for you! An intervention for you… (meaningless pause) Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Having your own intervention is… tacky.” She replied.

Dave arrived soonafter and decided, if he were to host his own intervention, it would be a lot better than this.

We rolled that idea around for a while while looking at the fall foliage. As the leaves drop, you can start to see a bend of the Ohio River far off in the distance from this vantage.

I thought out loud: “Having your own intervention is a good idea. Get all these people over and say that — I brought you together because I have a problem, and I’ll need your help.

See, I put up with a lot of bullshit, and it needs to stop. Then proceed to go around the group and single everyone out, telling them what annoys you.

Then we started drinking.

I babysat

Tubs are fun

Simon and Garfunkel played in Columbus last night. My friends went with a bunch of family and left me with their daughter for a few hours. My first babysitting stint, ALONE.

Who was more scared at this prospect, I’m not sure.

An unfamiliar place + plus and unfamiliar face could have spelled disaster, but it didn’t.

There were a few moments after the bottle was finished of outright screamfest, and try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to satiate the little chick. As I invested every shred of attention to finding someway to ease her, I realized, even when you give 100%, it’s not always enough.

Later in the evening, after a good piece of sleep, she again arose with some powerful cries. I tried soothing her in the portable crib, but ended up finding some rocking chair action was in order. She quieted down and became unusually alert. Looking to the light creeping in from the venetian blinds, then to the quiet and dimly lit living room. She looked back and forth, over and over.

It wasn’t a scared look, but lucid and attentive.

Gonna be interesting when she puts words out there. Wondering what goes on in that noggin is pretty darn entertaining though.

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