"A white Patrice." I can honestly say that that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire 25 years of life. Like online, in person, or other wise. So thank you for that.
Next on the agenda: WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK?!?!!?!?!? Can I please share with you what is going on right now slash today as a whole? Because today has been the spookiest day of my entire life and shit's only getting spookier by the minute:
1.) I'm still housesitting the haunted old McBlogger place, by myself. (Except for Evie. And the pet/family cemetery across the hall.)
2.) I heard a strange noise coming from the garage this afternoon that sounded like someone dragging trash cans around. How did I choose to deal with this situation? By physically clinging to Evie's hindquarters for dear life and watching five episodes of Bridezillas in a row to distract myself. I don't think she appreciated it, but I sure as shit did.
2.) There was a bad storm this afternoon and the power went out for a substantial amount of time. I mean, for fuck's sake...
3.) Directly after the power went out, an unknown number called my cell phone. I answered thinking it might be my parents, BUT THE PERSON HUNG UP. (...'Eh. That doesn't sound nearly as terrifying as it actually was. Time to editorialize.) AND AFTER THE PERSON HUNG UP, I GOT A TEX MESSAGE SAYING THAT I WAS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT. (That's more like it.)
3.) Tulane Chris and I were chatting tonight about his visit this weekend and he for some reason brought up the urn with my grandfather's ashes in the room across from mine. I corrected Chris that my grandfather's ashes aren't actually in an urn at all—they're still in the FedEx box that the crematorium sent us. 15 years ago. This blew Chris' mind, which in turn blew my mind because I'm aware that this is kind of an unorthodox treatment of human remains, but it's not that weird, is it? I mean, what's the difference between an urn and a FedEx box? They're both perfectly fine containers. "Meg," Chris said sternly, "You know what my childhood was like. And even I think that's weird." Bold statement, sir. Bold statement, from a bold man. But more-so, it got me thinking, what if my grandfather is pissed off that we never scattered his ashes or put them in a proper receptacle and now he's going to haunt the living eff out of me this week and/or seek revenge?!
That's when Chris proposed that during his visit, we scatter my grandfather's ashes quote, "someplace really nice." "Yeah, we're not doing that Chris," I told him, "I don't think my parents would appreciate it if they came home and asked me what we did this weekend and I said, 'Oh nothing special. Went to the blog panel, hung out, saw a movie, scattered grandpa Bern's ashes on I-95, you know, the usual.'" "I didn't say on I-95; I said someplace really nice."
We eventually met eachother halfway and decided that while he's here, we'll haul out the old FedEx box and say a few kind words together. Apparently this will "genuinely make Chris feel better" and put any haunting concerns I have to ease. Too bad Chris doesn't get here until Thursday afternoon, which means I have tonight and tomorrow night to survive alone. Which should be interesting.
4.) Considering this is the current view from my bed:
5.) And you know what doesn't make it any better? The fact that Evie's been sitting next to me in bed, tensely staring at the door for the past half an hour.
I can't decide if she's trying to do me a solid by being on the look-out or if she's getting back at me for all the Bridezillas I made her watch today by making me think her heightened feline senses see a ghost. Knowing her, it's probably the latter. Bitch.
6.) My parents have this spooky-ass painting hanging in the front hall, facing the front door:
Every time I glance towards the front hall at night, I see that guy's reflection in the window and think there's a 200-year-old Flemish man on the porch ready to shove his fife up my ass.
Which is when I simultaneously have a stroke and soil myself. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
7.) As I started this writing this post (with old Quiet Paws McGee sitting next to me, staring at the door like it's on fire, mind you) I heard a loud bang outside that sounded like a straight-up gun shot. "Welp, I'm going to die tonight." I thought. I kissed Evie goodbye, regretted not wearing something more dignified to die in (...my "Big Peckers, Ocean City, MD" t-shirt and that's the ballgame) and prepared to meet my maker. And then I heard the bang again. Followed by a familiar fizzle sound. Which is when it clicked—they were fireworks going off.
Now, here's my question: WHAT SORT OF SICK FUCK SETS OFF FIREWORKS AT 12:47 ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING IN A QUIET SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE YOUNG, BIG-PECKERED GIRLS ARE HOME ALONE WITH THEIR NEMESIS CATS AND CLOSETS FILLED WITH FEDEX BOXES OF LOVED ONES, SCARED SHITLESS?!?!?!?! WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU?!
And now my lips are chapped and the nearest chap stick is in my mom's room. Which I'm scared to walk to. So if I die tonight, I leave you with the following:
1.) I'm scared
2.) Hold me.
3.) I still haven't forgiven Suzy Soro.
4.) I want my gravestone to read, "Meghan Catherine McBlogger. 1985 - 2010. Daughter, Sister, friend, White Patrice."
That is if my parents don't cremate me and throw me in the closet with the rest of the family...
Posts
44 comments:
I completely understand! I get so creeped out over NOTHING AT ALL and I'm ashamed to say how easily. I can't watch scary movies either because they haunt me for months afterwards. And that painting is super creepy. I would have every light on in the house if I were there. Better to see your imaginary attacker than not, right?
Correction: Better to see the imaginary attacker coming rather than boom, he's right there.
Not sure if anyone else believes in this ludicrous theory...but my roommate and I don't live alone. There is a killer in our basement/garage. Every time...EVERY TIME I go in there, I have to run as fast as I can, flailing my arms, and sort of whimpering loudly to myself to prevent said killer from catching, killing, filleting, and eating me.
I have on good authority from some of my other best girlfriends that this killer also lives in their attics, basements, garages, spare rooms, etc. So, in case you see him- thanks for taking him off my hands for the week. :)
I. Love. You. Très Awesome.
I too am staying home alone in my parents house this week taking care of my dog. I thought I was alone in my serial killer fears until yesterday when I read your post. Now, when I lie alone in my bed clutching my cell phone which already has 911 typed into it I am somehow comforted by the fact that you are staring into a bright hallway that the ghost of your grandpa is lurking up and down.
Also, Suzy Soro is a loser. Great email war. ;) bahahah
my dad's ashes are in a cigar box. it's been three years. for some reason we thought it was more dignified than the crematorium box, but still... i hear you on that. i don't think it's THAT weird. is it??
MEG! My Grandma's ashes are still in the cardboard box and on my parent's hutch from the day they got them back from when she...wait for it...donated her body to science. Yeah.
Thank you for making me feel better. Again.
Yeah, don't watch The Strangers. That movie will fuck up your whole situation for months to come. Take it from a victim.
This is exactly why Meg is not my executor. When the time came, I'd expect her to just have me dragged into the yard and covered with a tarp.
-TC
Awww, Tulane Chris. I'm sure she would at least wrap you in the tarp.
Maybe? No?
i like it when im doing foreplay and a big black guys jumps out at me and scares me and then makes me give him head.
-TC
Growing up I lived next to a cemetary and back in the day the family computer used to be in the living room which was on the exact opposite end of the house from my room. I absolutely REFUSED to walk from end to end without any lights on. I was so convinced that's when the ghosts would "come to get me".
What's worse?? The porch's screen door is all broken so it just randomly swings/slams open and shut on its own. I hate being there alone.
You always hear people say that living in the suburbs/country is so much safer. Well THAT's where the hauntings are people!
Anything in the city that's haunted is well-marked and full of tourists.
City 1, Suburbs 0
It's like, just when I've forgotten about Suzy Soro, you remind me what a douchebag she was to you.
Every time I read that post, I can't believe she actually wrote those things.
I suppose, that's why she's 40 and is best known as the chick who took the last chocolate babka on Seinfeld and also was called a bad name on a TV show no one watches.
ANYWAY, I read a lot of humor bloggers. A lot a lot. Like an embarrassing number. I'm kind of a humor blogger nerd.
I do not read Suzy Soro, not just because of your experience. Also because I spent a lot of time stalking her a while ago and read nothing at all even amusing.
As I was reading this in my Google Reader, my unread posts count was at 666. So not only are you going to die, you are going to die at the hands of Satan himself.
Meg, let me tell you a little story about housesitting. I live with my parents, and when they're out of town, I'm home by myself and things can get pretty scary out in Centreville, Va.
Two weeks ago, I left my house at around 4:00 to go to Charlottesville for a friend's party. Before I left, I watered my mom's flowers on the front porch. When I got back to the house at around midnight, I came in through the garage, locked the door, and prepared to head upstairs for the evening. But as I walked to the stairs, the front door was WIDE OPEN! Apparently I didn't shut it all the way before I left. So, I searched the house, which is pretty much the bravest I've ever been, and locked the door to the basement, thus locking the murderer down there for the night. After not finding anyone, I figured I live in a safe neighborhood and went to bed.
I woke up at 2:30 in the morning to loud banging noises coming through the wall from my little brother's room (he lives in Richmond). I freaked and thought "Oh my god! There really WAS someone in the house! Well, this is it. The murderer has come. I am going to die." Accompanying the noises, there were obvious human sounds so I knew there was actually a person in the house.
I reached for my phone to call 911, when suddenly, my logic got the best of me. "Why would a murderer wait 2 and a half hours to kill me? That doesn't make sense." I called my brother's cell phone, and sure enough, I heard it ring through the wall. After an expletive-laced tirade asking why he was home, he goes "Oh yeah. I'm home tonight."
And I will die 10 years earlier than I would have from this incident. I feel this incident warranted the length of this comment. Best of luck.
(Oh and my cat used to do the stare at the door thing when I was home alone, too. Bastard.)
hi Meg- what's the update on the store.. you said they would be done weeks ago
uhhhhh I don't know HOW I missed the Suzy Soro drams but I just caught myself up and did a little virtual stalking...I think its VERY obvious why you would shoot past her in the Blogger's Choice Awards...her blog isn't funny, its kinda sad...and it totally gave me the "in someone's dirty bedroom with no place to sit or stand", MySpace-esque creeps.
Dude! not that weird. My uncle spent a few years in the cardboard box in my dad's closet before they figured out what to do with him. now he's in a nicer box sitting on top of the bar in our basement.
This is basically further proof to me that you are pretty much the female me. I also constantly get freaked out when home alone in my parents house, or really anywhere that's not in a city. I constantly glance at the windows, thinking I see something, or convince myself that I heard a noise. I'm aware of how much of a wimp that makes me.
The odd thing is, I'm never that concerned in the city, because I feel like if anything, sevearl dueling gangs who ALL want to rape/kill/rob me will start fighting with each other for the right to have their first shot at me, and I can sneak away and escape. Sort of like that scene in Anchorman, except right on 11th Street at 2am.
I read this entry and laughed so hard I cried. You are so funny.
Kids in my neighborhood have already started going nuts with firecrackers. So annoying
Can you explain what keith and the girl is and how a white Patrice is a compliment? I don't get the reference.
Dude, you're on the internet. Google it.
it's a sad day. DOD finally caught on and started blocking the blog. *tear*
I already knew I came in gay, but colors is a new one....Now I'll have to get "She came in many colors" on my Tombstone....
My dad was shipped my grandmothers ashes a couple years ago when my aunt never picked her up from the funeral joint. I of course was the lucky one to sign for grandma, I made it even more awkward when the ups guy got there by shouting to my boyfriend she's here! At any rate, she's still in a plastic box within the ups box in my dads office and it makes me uncomfortable whenever I see it-- I feel that way about all ashes though not just disrespected ones.
why dont you proofread entries anymore?
Why don't you stop being such a prick, Anon?
we kept my daddy's ashes on the mantle. in a tin. in a box. kinda like cracker jack, but different.
Speaking of Neve Campbell (and knowing Meg's completely rational obsession with all things Matthew Lillard), are you aware that the newest installment in the Scream saga is currently in production?! That's right, good ole' Sidney Prescott and fucking Gale Weathers are back. Scre4m. IMDB it.
Dear Meg,
I have been cray busy this summer and neglected reading your blog. And at first I was going to apologize, but really I am glad because now I will while away countless hours chuckling creepily too myself at your witty prose.
Thank you,
Honestly, that was a beautiful post. Well played ma'am... well played...
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