Hubby walks out the door at about 4 in the afternoon yesterday. He was going to meet some of the guys. Bye Hubby! says I.
So, I’m watching my usual Saturday TV-- Cold Case Files, Forensic Files, I Detective and other assorted “There’s a bunch of crazy-assed killers out there-- and we caught 'em because of this microscopic chicken feather found in the carpet amid the invisible blood splatter set aglow with Luminis” shows.
All of a sudden it’s 10 at night and I realize I don’t know where my husband is! What if an FBI guy with a bulbous alchoholic nose comes a-knocking? What am I supposed to tell the NYPD when they find his bullet-riddled body buried in Prospect Park with a garbage bag over his head? “I dunno officer, sir. He went out with his friends. Dunno which ones. Dunno where. Please don’t put the cuffs on me officer-- I’m a little distraught right now-- my husband is now a headless, handless corpse floating in the East River.”
At 11 my daughter walks in my bedroom with the phone at her ear. “Daddy wants to know if he should pick up something.” She says calmly. She doesn’t know that her Dad was just dismembered and stuffed in a freezer. “Where the hell is he?” I yell.
Daughter listens to the phone and laughs long and heartily. “Daddy says he’s on his way from the movies-- and to stop watching Forensic Files.”
Wankers-- all of them.
I’m bad about doing that when I’m reading really scary books.
Back about twenty years ago, my sister and (now deceased) best friend and I took a trip to Gulf Shores, Alabama. They were sun/beach worshippers and I am an air conditioning/bed worshipper. They hit the beach. I hit the bed.
I had bought a book called Christiane F about this girl in Germany who turns into a teenage junkie. I was piled up in bed all damn day, reading this really horrific book, and getting all into it. She ends up being a prostitute at about age fifteen or sixteen, and has all this really horrible stuff happen to her. She is HEAVY DUTY into heroin…not one page of the book goes without it being mentioned, and or injected. It’s graphic, to say the least.
My sister and friend didn’t show up at their appointed time, and it got dark. I immediately begin wigging out…I am positive they’ve been off doing heroin and are currently hooking somewhere near the Pink Pony Pub. The darker it gets, the more I wig. I have visions of them dead on the beach with rubber hoses on their arms, and needles hanging out of them. Seriously, I was hyperventilating when they came bouncing, a little drunk, but not tore up on smack, into the room.
I chewed them twenty seven new assholes and told them if they’d known how bad I was worried about them being on heroin, they’d never have stayed out so late! Needless to say, they were laughing so hard at me nothing I said really struck home.
I took the car keys away from them, and we went to a nice, safe bar and got totally annihilated on good ol’ booze. I also never let them out of my sight the rest of the trip.
Kind of off topic, but when I was a teen, and I came home late without calling my mother first, then when I got home she would be giving me the whole “Do you know how worried I was? I thought that you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere!” routine. Yet, there were nights where she got home late at night and I’d be like “Gee mom, you kind of had me worried.” And her attitude would be “So? I’m home a few hours late, what’s the big deal?”
I remember watching an Alfred Hitchcock Presents about women who were getting killed while alone in their homes at night.
Guess where I was.
I used to fret like mad when I lived with my parents and they’d come home an hour or four after I expected 'em.
“Where were you?!”
“We lost track of time.”
I would point out the intrinsic unfairness of this, considering that if I didn’t call when I lost track of time, I was in (mild) trouble. The innate justice of this did not seem to sway them.
lol that’s what i tell my parents. If they throw me in a pit of hell for having forgotten the time or telling where i am, i throw the same kind of hissy-fit when they leave the house.—> I’m home, working on something, the phone rings, so i pick up:
Caller: May i speak to Mr./Mrs Senior5U1C1D3?
Me: just one sec
spends 5 minuts running around the house and calling their names, checking back yard, then notice car gone and their slippers discarded
Me:(panting) they’re not here, can i take a message?
I mean…can’t you freaken tell me at least that you’re leaving the house?
You guys complaining about your parents should take a lesson from my kids. Me and my husband did this once (and you better believe it was only once) to our kids.
Hubby got out of work early and called me on my cell to tell me he’d pick me up from the train station. On the way home we decided to stop at 200 5th for some delicious food to take home. Well, there was a Knick game on and we sort of got caught up in it and didn’t make our way home until it was over.
Well! Our kids were waiting for us and boy did they give us a stern talking to. My son was mad, mad, mad. He just could not believe how inconsiderate we were. He practically gave us a spanking for causing him so much worry. My daughter was more reasonable. How embarressed would we have been if we came up to our home and there were police here? It would have been very embarrassing, right Mom and Dad?!
We were properly chastised, my husband and I, and we always check with the kids.
You know, my wife would sneak up behind me whenever I used to play Half Life or System Shock 2… (translation, two excellent computer games that crank up tension quite nicely)
I would just be completing an area where I’d nearly been overwhelmed by zombies or marines when all of a sudden I’d get tickled and jump straight out of my chair.
Hey, speaking of those shows, did anyone watch City Confidential earlier? They were talking about a murderer in Pittsburgh, and they interviewed the guy’s neighbor-who was one of my professors!
No, I’m saying it was inconsiderate of my husband and I to take off for hours without telling them where we were and they had every right to be upset about it.
My similar-to-the-OP moment, though, was the fault of some horrible person (perhaps on this board) who posted a link to an archive of ghost stories. It’s the one with the Fanged Muppet Tale. Anyway, I was readying those all day… with some forays into crimelibrary.com… then I left my apartment to go visit my then-boyfriend.
As I walked out my door, I saw a neighbor coming up the stairs-- and promptly jumped like a freakin’ jackass, caught my jacket sleeve on my door frame and whacked my head on the door.
She pretended not to notice, and I managed to get to the ex’s apartment without dying of accute mortification. Just barely. And he of course did not laugh his ass off all the night long at all when I told him about it. Yeah right!
