What next?

Let me begin by saying I had a fantastic weekend. Time with friends I love, new friends met and enjoyed, much laughing, good rest, and successful boot shopping. Oh yes, the boots. I tried them on for fun, and then, despite the price tag, couldn't bear to leave the store without them. And so I am now the proud owner of these babies, purple cowboy boots, size 7. They are more fantastic than the photo can express. The shade of purple is richer and brighter. They fit like slippers. They give me superpowers of confidence.

Good thing too, because last night I got a shock.

I work in an industry that's closely regulated by the government. Every once in a while, over the years, politics have threatened to shut down my workplace. There was no serious threat in the past eight years or so, since before I started working there, but now, it's starting again. I just got word that we'll have to put up an enormous fight or my work will be shut down come spring.

We were doing so well that we were in the midst of planning a move to larger premises. That's all been put on hold until this threat is dealt with.

The owners have fought this battle and won more than once in the past, but you never know.

The good news is that the businessmen I work for have other interests. There's already a plan on the table for a new business, something they were toying with before they got this bad news. So if my current job evaporates with the last of the winter snow, likely it won't be long before they hire me back to work on the next project. My boss told me so. My own safety and security is pretty safe.

However, it's still Big Bad News. Firstly, there's everyone else who works with me. They can't all get hired back to work on a fledgling business. There may be some tough times ahead for my colleagues, and I care about my colleagues very much. Especially my own staff. I will openly say that I love them all, like family. Being their Mama Bear, which is how I do being a manager, has given me my reason for getting out of bed and going to work in the mornings for many years now. I would miss them terribly if we were separated. Losing that element of my social circle and my heart would truly be devastating.

And secondly, but not least important, is the impact on all the people who receive our services. I won't go into detail for fear of compromising my anonymity, but I will state that we provide a service that is absolutely essential for to the quality of life of our clients. We have over 1,200 active files at the moment. What will happen to all those people if we and other businesses like us are closed down? Many of them will cope by becoming addicts, self-medicating with street drugs. It's likely that some will commit suicide when they cannot find relief from their suffering. It's a tough future to contemplate.

So we will fight, and fight hard, to keep the business alive. I couldn't really say what our chances are, but if we've done it before then we can do it again. If my spirits start to crumple, I will put on my Purple Power Boots of Optimism to remind myself that I can be my own superhero. And whatever comes, of course, I have my faith to carry me through. I will be praying over here, if anyone cares to join me.

True Scary Story

Sometime quite a few months back, Ken and I are heading home after meeting our pastor at the church to make the initial plans for our wedding. The sun has just set. It's a regular weekday evening. Lights are on in all the units in our condo complex. The air wafting from the building vents smells of boiling rice and stewing beef. You would be hard-pressed to find a more domestic, cozy scene.

We reach our front door, unlock it, flick on the entranceway light, and step inside. I reach around the corner and hit another light switch, which illuminates our living room. Everything is just as we left it. I'm glad to be home, looking forward to putting my feet up and relaxing.

As I'm reaching to untie my shoes, Ken suddenly startles, and jumps back against the wall. His face perfectly illustrates the expression "he looked like he'd just seen a ghost". He's staring into the middle of the living room like he's spotted something terrifying. I look back into the living room. There's the sofa. There's the TV and remote control. Nothing out of order.

Ken is still backed into a corner between all wall and the hall closet door. His face is grey.

"Did you see that?" he asks me.

"See what?"

"That guy."

I look at him like, more information please!

"There was a man standing right there in the middle of our living room."

"What did he look like?"

"He was tall, bald, and creepy-looking. He was wearing a long dark coat. He saw me looking at him. Then as soon as I saw him he started vanishing from the feet up. He was gone by the time I asked you if you saw anything."

Ken was not fooling with me. He wasn't drunk, overtired, or on medication. He has no history of schizophrenia. I'm as sure as I can be that he can see disembodied spirits.

Ken's dad and his brother also have the ability to see ghosts. This isn't the only ghost story I have from Ken, but it was the only time I was there. And it made me really, really glad that, despite my ability to experience some things beyond my five senses, I can't see ghosts. Because that apparition scared the poop out of him.

Fortunately the scary ghost man never re-appeared in our living room.

Believe what you will, but this story is true to me. Happy Hallowe'en! May you have lots of fun and candy, and no ghosts.

The Neverending Story

The squeamish may leave now. Bye, LL Cool Joe, see you next time.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that my step-mum was going to have surgery due to the slight possibility of cancer in her large intestine. Details are in the previous post, but briefly, the doctors decided to remove one third of her large intestine and biopsy it. I was told that this was going to be done with a laparoscopic procedure, that the risk of infection was minimal, and that after a few weeks for her body to adjust, she could live a perfectly normal life without that 1/3 of her intestine. Kind of like having your tonsils out, or an appendectomy, I guessed. It didn't seem too bad.

I was concerned for my step-mum, and also for my father and my sister. We're pretty close relative to the average family of the type, whether you want to call it "blended", "post-divorce" or "we don't care so much about labels because we love each other". I prefer the latter.

My step-mum has always been incredibly sweet to me. I've known her since I was a kid. I was 13 years old when I was offered the chance to listen to her pregnant belly through a stethescope. I can still remember the sounds of my sister gurgling in the womb, like she was scuba-diving in there.

When I was 22 my primary parents (mum and step-dad) renovated our house. The builders kicked us out of it for 6 weeks so that they could mess around with the utilities without having to worry about our well-being. My sister, who had always wanted a chance to live with her big sister, offered to loan me her room. She slept in our dad's office, just for the sake of having me there. I hope I was worth it.

It was really weird moving into their house. I had never felt much a part of that family before, not back in those days. I felt like an outsider who didn't belong. I was nervous and self-conscious. My father seemed happy to have me there, but what amazed me was how welcoming my step-mum was. She basically told me to consider myself at home, in the warmest possible way. This despite the fact that their house wasn't large, and I was a more or less alien intruder into their living space. Back then, we didn't know each other very well.

Things were very different than at my regular house. For example, at home I was only allowed to have one box of cookies open at a time. In my step-mum's kitchen, there was choice! There was abundance! You could select the type of cookie you were in the mood for, or browse through a wide selection of opened boxes of herbal tea. The decadence of it all made my head spin.

My step-mum has never treated me as less than a fully-fledged family member. Coming from my experience, in which my actual blood family has often made me feel unwanted, I appreciate this more than I can say.

When she went in for her surgery, my father used a blog format to update all their friends and family on her progress. I was shocked by what I read.

The surgery went well, but her recovery was a nightmare. Allergic reactions to her painkillers; excruciating pain; horrible nausea; middle-0f-the-night trips back to the emergeny room; it never seemed to end.

All this week I've kept my eyes fixed on that blog, imagining every horrifying detail. I'm stressed out just from reading about it online. I can't imagine how it was to live it, for my step-mum or for my father and sister who are caring for her. They couldn't seem to catch a break. Every time my father posted that she was doing a little better, there would be another crisis in short order. They've barely slept at all this week.

The suffering that they've been experiencing is beyond imagining. It's been breaking my heart knowing what they've been going through.

But finally, finally things seem to be settling down. My step-mum has had two good nights in a row, safely in her own bed at home. There's a long road ahead, but she'll make it.

Bravado

Today I finally went to see my doctor about the mysterious symptoms that have been plaguing me for the past three weeks.  Like, on Friday my hands were so weak and stiff that I was having trouble turning doorknobs.  Like, on Sunday, at church, I felt faint during the singing and had to go lie down in the lounge.  

Anyway, OF COURSE I felt almost 100% better by my appointment.  I figured I'd better show up anyway, because I could guarantee that if I cancelled I'd be a mess again by morning.  It's like taking your umbrella along to ensure that it won't rain.

I told the doctor my long list of bizarre and seemingly random symptoms, which he jotted down.  Then, as I knew he would, he told me I'd better go down to the lab to have some blood tests.  We joked a bit about (I can't resist this pun) the irony of him telling me to take a potent iron supplement to get my blood levels up, and then continually draining blood out of me.  Then he told me not to worry.  If the blood tests were positive, he'd send me to a rheumatologist.  If negative, to an allergist.  At any rate, he assured me, I'd get to see "some kind of '-ist'".  

I relate these lame jokes not because I think you'll find them hilarious and be all with the LOL in the comments, but more to indicate that I was feeling relaxed.  In fact, I was feeling so at ease, and so confident, that I decided to do something I hadn't done in five years, which was to provide my blood sample while sitting up.

In the past, I had a history of passing out when my blood was drawn.  I got into the habit of telling the lab techs that I need to lie down for these operations.  But the last two times I had blood drawn, which were within the past couple of months, I did so well (from my prone position), and sat up so fast with so little light-headedness after, that I started to wonder if maybe I was over this fear.

The only way to know is to try.  So.  Can you see where this is going?  I thought "I'm gonna give my blood like a big girl today.  I'm gonna sit in that chair and just not look and it'll all be fine."

I was doing great in the waiting room.  I was feeling brave when I sat down in the chair.  I rolled up my sleeve and didn't even look when the lab tech put on the tourniquet, because I get grossed out by the sight of bulging  veins.  I was slightly concerned when I saw her prepare three empty vials.  The last couple of times I only had to do one.  But by the time I realized that there was more at stake this time, I felt it was too late to rethink my bravado.

In went the needle, and a whooshing squeeze of yuckiness swept through me.  I don't know if I could have tolerated it if it had been over after one vial, but, as the endless seconds dragged by, the feeling got worse and worse.  I started to sigh, and then put my head down on my other arm.  I began to sweat, and then my eyes welled up with tears.  Yeah, not much of a big girl there.

By the time the tech had filled her three vials, I was feeling pretty awful.  She asked me if I was alright. I didn't really want to speak, so I shook my head, and the room spun.  The tech took my right hand and told me to press a cotton swab into my left elbow.   Then she told me to put my head between my knees.

Instead of feeling better, I started feeling even worse.  The waves of badness that had taken over my body were becoming unbearable.  I didn't know if I was going to pass out or barf.  In a quiet corner of my mind, where my observer-self was sitting in a comfortable armchair and taking notes on a steno pad, I remarked to myself on the undesirability of puking.  Meanwhile, my outside voice was moaning.  

"HHHHNNNNNGGGGGG" most closely approximates the animal sound that was passing through my clenched teeth.  I debated letting myself fall out of the chair to curl up in the fetal position on the  people-have-been-walking-on-it-all-day-with-dirty-salty-snowboots linoleum floor.  

Tech #1 had hurried off and came back quickly with Tech #2.    Between the two of them they got ahold of my elbows, negotiated me to my feet, then marched me to a room with a full-length examination table, and lay me down there.  Or at least, I lay my torso down.  I was so totally flopped that they had to pick up my feet one by one and place them onto the table.  

Then I heard one of the techs, the kind one with the Phillipino accent, say "Oh no, she let go of the gauze.  Look, there's blood all over."  Lovely.  Just what I wanted to hear.  Obviously I was too distraught to put proper pressure on my needle-stick wound, and now I had bled all over myself. 

While one of the techs swabbed my forhead with a cold, wet paper towel and fanned me with a file folder, the other wiped down my right hand with more wet towels.  At the back of my mind I recalled how I had ignored my instinct to wear black pants today.  Logic dictated that pale grey went better with the sweater I had picked out.  I wish I had gone with my gut.

Finally, after much swabbing, and fanning, and sipping at a Dixie cup of cold water, I started to come back from that desperate state to my normal, conscious self.  When they saw my eyes focusing again, the techs confirmed that I was feeling better, and then they left me there with strict instructions not to move until I felt totally recovered.

It took awhile.  I tried to get up in stages, first flopping one foot over the edge of the table, then the other.  Then roll onto side.  Then lift head up a few inches, to test the waters.  I kept having to lie back down again.  At one point, Tech #1 came back to tell me I could take my time, no rush, they were open until 8:00 pm.  That actually made me laugh.  And then it made me even more motivated to get myself vertical and headed home.

Finally I got upright.  I assessed the damage to my pants, which wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but bad enough that they could still be considered "ruined".  I apologized to the lab techs for making such a fuss, and thanked them for their kindness.

By the time I got home the bloodstains had started to set.  Ever-helpful, Google suggested that I spit on the stains and then rub them.  The protein enzymes in saliva break down the proteins in blood.  Which is kind of a weird equation, like two wrongs making a right: bleeding AND spitting on your clothes leaves you with a wearable item.  Or maybe it's like the Rock, Paper, Scissors of bodily fluids.  Spit beats blood.  What does blood beat?  

I couldn't get the stains all the way out.  We'll see what happens once my pants go through the wash.

The moral of the story for me was: Don't try to be a hero.  Now and forevermore, I will be a compliant wimp and will lie down to have my blood taken.  

On the other hand, I'm really proud of myself for facing my fear.  That it was an unmitigated Fail doesn't discount the fact that I tried.  Now I know for sure.  And I swear I'll never do it again.

Bang!

I did it.  I shot a real gun.  Twenty times.  I even hit the target most of those times.

How did I come to shoot a gun, you may ask?  This peace-loving woman who captures bugs between a cup and a piece of cardboard so she can release them outside instead of squishing them?  

It was for a good cause.  The shooting range was hosting a benefit for Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome or some such malady.  $20 at the door bought two rounds of ammo and a promotional sticker.

But seriously, how did I come to this converted warehouse, in the town of Gormley, population 30, 000, to shoot a gun?  Ken brought me there.

Ken is good at target sports.  He was into archery for a while, and next on his list of interests was firearms.   A couple of weeks ago he finally followed up on his curiousity and visited the shooting range in Gormley.  His instructors were amazed at his steadiness and accuracy.  He came home with a poster-sized paper, riddled through the middle circle with bullet-holes, and a burning desire to share the experience with me.

I didn't start to feel nervous until we had parked the car by the side of the building.  I could hear sound of shots echoing through the walls and the metal fire doors.  There was a notice posted by the entrance, stating that if you entered the premises the owners were absolved of all responsibility for your safety.  That gave me a moment's pause for thought.

A lot of people were there, waiting for a turn on the range.  As the line inched forward, I grew paradoxically more at ease and more nervous at the same time; the sound of gunfire became less alarming as I grew accustomed to it, but of course ever step closer to holding a gun in my own hands was a scary one.

We signed elaborate waivers, stating in lengthy legalese that if we got shot it was just tough beans for us.  I stuffed foam earplugs in my ears, then donned safety glasses and earmuff-style ear protection on top of that.  It was cold enough that I kept my coat on.  Finally, the door to the range opened, and an employee beckoned us in.

Ken shouted that I would go first and that I wanted to shoot the Glock 9mm handgun (the smallest gun available).  Each round for that gun consists of 10 bullets.  Each station had a range employee carefully overseeing a shooter.  There were a lot of us first-timers there.

My minder didn't seem perturbed that I had never handled a gun before.  He gave me some brief instructions, most of which were swallowed up by bursts of explosions.  I read his lips and figured out enough that I felt moderately confident when he gave me the gun.

I had a loaded gun in my hands.  It didn't seem real.

I lined up the sights, pointed at the target, and squeezed the trigger.  Bang!  The gun jumped and a small hole appeared in my paper target, very far away from the spot I'd aimed for.  But I'd done it!  I shot the gun; no one was bleeding; and I even hit the paper!  

It was after that first shot, when I felt the powerful kick-back and heard the noise ricochet around the range, that my adrenaline really started pumping.  Now it was real.  I fired again. 

It was a good thing I'd been forewarned that the shell casings would fly back and might hit me in the face.  The instructor had shouted through my two layers of earplugs, "Just don't freak out!"  The first one hit me in the forehead, the second bounced off the tip of my nose.  I didn't freak out.  A third plonked down on the crown of my head.  I was cool.

By the time I was mostly through my second round of ammo, I was getting pretty shaky from adrenaline overload.  That was when a burning-hot shell casing flew back and lodged itself between the arm of my safety glasses and my left temple.  At that point, I did kind of freak out.  Still gingerly holding the loaded gun in my right hand, I frantically clawed at my face with my left hand, trying to dislodge the burning metal from contact with my skin.  My minder swiftly plucked the gun away from me and laid it down on the barrier.   

After yanking off my safety glasses and releasing the casing, I was truly rattled.  I made my last two shots with shaking hands, and was relieved to put the gun down and back away quietly.

Then it was Ken's turn.  He shot one round with the 9mm, and got all his shots right through the middle of the target.  Then he decided to move on to something bigger: a Glock .357.  

The range was set up with the smallest guns at the right end and the largest at the left.  This station was second from the left.  

I didn't like that end of the range.  The gunfire was much louder, and I couldn't help but jump at every explosion.  Someone was shooting the biggest gun, a 10mm.  I found myself holding my breath every time I saw him take aim, bracing for the impact of the sound.  I could not quell my startle reflex.  I thought about how scary it must be on a battlefield, with sonic shocks booming all around, the violence, and the fear of being hit.

Ken finally used up all his ammunition, and I was more than happy to follow him off the range.  

In the ladies' room, I hung my coat up on a hook.  Something went "Ting ting ting!" on the floor.  A shell casing had fallen out of my hood.  Now, that is unusual, I thought to myself.

I checked in the mirror.  I had three black dots of gunpowder on my chin, and an oblong pink burn on my left temple.  I washed off the powder with special heavy-metal-removing soap.  The burn remains.  I had been ritually scarred as part of my rite of passage.

I wouldn't say that I enjoyed the experience especially.  I was asked by a friend if I found it empowering, and I'd have to say "no".  Mostly it was nerve-racking.  But I am proud of myself for going through with it.  I might even go back.  We'll see. 

Shields Down

I used to have a Blogging Persona. Sparkling Red, born into the blogging world in October of 2007. She stood at a remove from the world, using that distance to find humour within anger or fear, and beauty within sorrow.

After Jesus came along and found me, and lifted me up to himself, I changed. At first I had trouble writing because my basic assumptions about reality were in flux, and I wasn't even sure who I was anymore. How can you write about "I" when you don't even know who that "I" is?

But now things are settling down, and I still find myself reluctant to return to this blog.

I can't be the old Spark anymore. I no longer stand at such a remove from the world, claiming observer status. Living like that allowed me a measure of protection, and also left me feeling alienated.

Now that I've set my intention to engage lovingly with real people in the real world, my heart has grown. I'm less likely to escape into ironic humour, and more likely to get genuinely emotional as I let myself be impacted by life. It's not that I feel this approach is unwelcome in Blogland, where there are no outsiders. But I'm more vulnerable now that I've dropped my shields. It's one thing to share my new self with trusted family and friends. It's quite another thing to put it out on the internet for anyone to see.

Also, I find myself preoccupied with some very controversial issues at the moment. Nothing I wish to share with a limitless audience. I'm not sure what would be gained by spouting my opinions on these matters, because peoples' minds aren't generally changed by words, but by personal experience.

So that is why again and again, I think about writing for this blog, and come up with question marks.

And yet, here I am!

Car Overboard

Sunday morning, just before 10:30 am. Ken and I are on our way to church. Two blocks away, we hear sirens approaching our area from several directions. A fire truck zooms past. I have that passing thought: I hope the church isn't on fire... But of course it won't be. It's always someone else's emergency.

Except this time. We round a corner to find several emergency vehicles converged on the church parking lot. There are two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a police cruiser. A handful of people are clustered together, looking at a hole in the wooden boards bordering the parking lot. All the emergency personnel are gathered around this hole.

On the other side of the wooden boards is a giant hole in the ground. A condo development has been hard at work excavating. We can't see how deep the hole is, but we assume it's enough to accomodate at least two layers of underground parking.

The firemen work together to rip the top sections of the damaged boards away from the rest of the wall. As the gap widens, the tail end of a car becomes visible, barely sticking up out of the hole. Rumour has it that an elderly couple and their grandchild, a baby, are in the car, moments away from sliding nose-down into the depths of the pit. The driver hit the gas instead of the brake while parking, and they blasted straight through the wooden hoarding.

Now, in a scene straight out of a Hollywood action movie, they are poised on the brink.

As more and more people arrived for church, the crowd grew. Yellow police tape was put up to around the scene. More rumours flew through the crowd. We all watched anxiously as the crews formulated solutions. I put my head down and prayed.

Finally we were called into the church to pray together.

Fortunately, all the occupants of the car were safely evacuated. They had bruises from hanging face-down in their seat belts, and the driver was understandably distraught, but it was as good an outcome as anyone could have hoped for.

By the time the service was complete, the Big Tow was there, winching the car up out of the hole.



The angle of the car in this shot is the same angle at which it was "parked" at the edge of the hole.



They gently lowered the car down until all four wheels were once again on horizontal ground.



The guy with the camera is from one of the local news shows.



I was pretty shaken up by the incident, even though I didn't know the people in the car. I found out later, from the evening news, that the hole was only as deep as the car was long. They weren't in any danger of sliding into an abyss, as we all assumed. That impression certainly added to the drama!

All's well that ends well. Thank God.

Cabbing it

Summertime! Finally here. I celebrated by spending the weekend out and about, on the sidewalks, in the malls, always on the move. My feet still ache from all the roaming.

I feel happy to be alive, not only in a generalized, existential sense, but in a specific, Thank-God-That-Was-A-Close-Call sense.

On Friday morning, I took a taxi to a work-related conference. At 8:00 am sharp I called the cab. By 8:07 it was at my door, its windows down to let the warm morning air flow in.

The cabbie motioned me to sit up front with him. It's a better view, he said. I thought, sure! Why not? The backseat has no particular appeal. I got in.

So, where are we going? asks the cabbie. I tell him the name of the hotel. He's not familiar with it. This is not encouraging. Fortunately, I wrote down all the directions. We go over them once together before pulling away from the curb. He drives around to the exit from the condo complex, and as he's pulling out into traffic he asks me again - right or left now?

Not encouraging.

We get out into traffic. The hot sun is blazing through the windshield even at this time of the morning. I do a Houdini-style escape from my cardigan, wiggling out of it without taking off my seatbelt. Things are moving slowly along the main street. I don't pay much attention at first, but as we proceed I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. He's driving right up the tailpipe of the car in front of us in stop-and-go traffic. It's not going to get us there any faster, but it might land us in a fender-bender.

The cabbie looks over at me and sees my face, which is completely transparent at all times, no matter how well I think I'm hiding my feelings. Don't worry! he tells me. You're in good hands! I get you there safe!

Sure. I'll believe that when the end of the day comes and I'm not wearing a neck brace.

Then he slams on the brakes and we lurch to a stop one inch from the side of a pool maintenance van that's turning left in front of us. Next turn-off: the highway.

Now we're on the 401. Traffic is heavy, and everyone's driving fast. I think back to the definition of a "safe following distance" as recommended by Young Drivers' of Canada. I can't remember it exactly, but I'm sure my cabbie isn't abiding by it. Nor the guidelines for safe lane changes. I'm thinking he must come from one of those countries where everyone drives like a maniac and it's considered normal. I feel a panic attack coming on. I begin to pray under my breath, and feel marginally better.

The sun is glaring right into my face. I pull down the eyeshade and two dozen crumpled paper napkins fall into my lap. I flick them off as the car weaves from lane to lane.

Finally we reach our exit. In the last few blocks before the hotel, the cabbie tries to jolly me up for a good tip by making friendly conversation. You don't drive? he asks me. Why not? It's good to drive. I teach you. I give you my number. I can teach you good.

Um. No thanks. Next time I think I'll get up an hour early and take the bus.

Spark's Ghostly Tips

These tips are based on the shows "A Haunting" and "Ghost Hunters", and also some personal experience.

1. Never mess with a Ouija board. With your luck, you'll open a portal to the demon dimension that can't be closed without professional help. Those guys are just waiting by the border between the realms, hoping some fool will crack open a door so that they can bust in and bully everyone.

2. If you are shopping for a new home, and one house in particular seems to enchant you and draw you to it with a magnetic force, turn around and run the other way. Especially if it's a huge, gorgeous old house built at least 100 years ago, the prettiest one in the neighbourhood, and it's on the market for a suspiciously low price. Either there are serious problems with the foundation, or the place is possessed. Either way, you don't want it.

3. When a family experiences paranormal experiences in their home, it's invariably the dad that takes the longest to be convinced of the problem. He will find ways of dismissing everything experienced by his wife and children as overactive imagination or "the house settling". A coffee mug can spontaneously fly across the kitchen and smash against a wall, and the dad will sigh and go "It's just a draft. I'd better caulk that window." Finally a demon will grab him by the throat and lift him off his feet, and as his toes dangle above the rug he'll rub his chin and croak, "Honey, what was that you were saying about a demon?."

4. Never hire the inexperienced exorcist. He'll screw it up and then you'll be worse off than you were before. Nothing angers a demon like some dweeby guy standing inside a pentagram made of salt, trying to chant all the evil out of the house. Punishment will be swift and nasty. Do a little research, pay an extra few bucks, and get an exorcist who's been at it for at least 10 years. It's good value for your money.

5. Of course it's also possible to find "paranormal" occurrences where there are none. At around 3:00 am, when you're on a stakeout of a supposedly haunted house, every little thing starts to seem like "evidence". But that scary sound you heard in the master bedroom? That's actually just the homeowner's cat who's sleeping at the foot of the bed, snoring.

6. Disembodied spirits who are still hanging around on this plane are often desperate to be acknowledged. It's a bad idea to acknowledge them unless you're really sure that you want to interact. For example, Ken saw something in a hospital that looked like wavy lines of heat distortion. He whispered "I can see you", and it zipped right over to him. Scared the crap out of him. If you're not sure what it is, play dumb and pretend it's not there.

7. Not all energy phenomena are intelligent spirits. There are blobby things that are like the dust bunnies of the energy realm. They roll around like tumbleweeds, sometimes coming to rest for a while where you can see them (if you're Ken) or feel them (if you're me). They don't really do much, and can be shooed away without incident.

8. I've never seen a ghost, and I'm grateful for that. I personally know 3 people who claim to have seen ghosts. One of them is into Wicca etc. so I'm slightly skeptical of her story. She would want to see a ghost, and so might be swayed to embellish if her experience was ambiguous. The second is Ken. The third is Ken's dad, who is a practical man with no time for nonsense. (Rule #3 is not ironclad.) None of them got any pleasure from their ghostly experiences. All three claim were scared shitless.

9. If you live in a haunted house, the best possible outcome is that you get rid of the bad spirits and carry on with your normal life. The second best outcome is that you have to move, and can carry on your normal life once you settle into your new home. The worst outcome is that you move and the spirits move with you. That really sucks.

10. Watching "A Haunting" and "Ghost Hunters" late at night is not such a great idea, especially if you're alone in the house. They re-run them 12 hours later on Saturday morning. Watch then with the sun streaming through the window. Demon stories are less scary if you hear them while eating a bowl of cereal.

Freaky Loud Surprises

It's Saturday night as I write this, and I'm feeling a little edgy. Things that go "BANG!" loudly and suddenly have afflicted me several times within the past 24 hours, and each incident is scarier than the last.

Last night I was having dinner with a friend at Swiss Chalet when the first big BANG happened. The whole restaurant hushed for a moment. I had my back to the room, so I couldn't see what had happened. I froze in my chair, trying to identify the sound. Then my friend said "It was just a balloon", and as the words left her lips, the normal hubbub of conversation rose up around us again. It took me a moment to refocus my brain, but then I thought nothing more of it.

Everything went normally for the first part of Saturday. Ken and I tried a new place for lunch: The Centre Street Deli. It's very popular. Check out the lineup. Everyone standing up is waiting for a table, from where I am with my camera to that guy way at the front in the yellow windbreaker.



While we waited I took some photos. They have very odd murals.



The wait wasn't as bad as it could have been. In only slightly more than ten minutes, we had our table. And shortly after that, our feast was served. If last weekend's meal was 8,000 calories, this one must have been around 8,157.



Note the rainbow of meat in my sandwich. On the menu it's called the "Club Roll", and contains a sampling of all of their deli meats, for those who can't choose just one.

The big blobby things are knishes. One beef, one chicken. With gravy. Could we be any more decadent? Look at the size of those things! For the record, I only ate half of what was on my plate and took the rest home.

We were feeling happy, full, and serene on the drive back. But then, just a few blocks from home, a storm struck. The wind picked up and the rain sheeted down, so hard that at points we could barely see. Then as we turned onto a side street, a hefty tree branch suddenly slammed down on the windshield, right in my face. BANG! I nearly jumped out of my seat, and Ken was like "Woah!" then "I think that might have dented the car!"

We got safely into our underground parking lot. Ken inspected the car. No visible damage. We're lucky. It could have been a bigger branch.

We hung out at home for an hour or so, and then headed back out to meet my step-dad for dinner. We went to a very civilized restaurant in the Forest Hill Village. I ordered a big salad to make up for my lunch. We were having a nice chat, relaxing, when suddenly, right behind me, BANG! I thought someone must have kicked over a chair. But immediately Ken motioned with his hands and yelled at me: "Get down!"

Without thinking, I scooted off my seat and ended up on my butt on the floor. There was another BANG! directly behind me, and then everyone seemed to relax.

When I recovered from Fight Or Flight mode enough to use my higher brain functions, I realized that a large painting had fallen off the wall behind me in two stages. The first BANG was when the nail pulled out of the drywall, and the painting dropped several inches vertically, onto the table directly beneath it, where, fortunately, no one was seated. It then started, slowly at first, to tip away from the wall. Ken saw it falling, directly towards my head, and yelled for me to get out of the way. I reacted quickly enough that I was out of my seat by the time the top of the painting slammed down. Another narrow escape.

Now, my nerves are shot. Ken chose not to drive on the highway on our way home, just in case the Sequence of Escalating Things That Go Bang had any further ideas for our car. You could say that these things come in three's, and that I can now consider myself safe. Either that or I'm doomed further, worse BANG! problems in the immediate future. Let's keep our fingers crossed for the Three Theory, shall we?