I'm Spent

Six hours. Six friggin' long-sufferin' hours. I've just finished watching the six-hour marathon session of Ghost Hunters Live, broadcast on the Sci-Fi channel, Halloween night, from 9PM to 3AM. Holy. Crap.

I'm a Ghost Hunters fan. No, actually, I'm a Ghost Hunters freak. Freak-a-zoid. If I lived anywhere near Rhode Island, I'd be whoring myself out to Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson (the leaders of TAPS, the Ghost Hunters organization) to get a spot on their team. Oh, yeah. I believe in ghosts, the paranormal, demonic possessions, electronic voice phenomena, EMF spikes when there's a ghost around, cold spots, and poltergeist activity. I'm all about it. I eagerly await each new season of Ghost Hunters, slobbering on my TiVo remote, sitting on my couch, eyes hungrily searching the black around the ghost researchers for any sign of a black mass or orb. I'm there, on the edge of my seat. I've been known to pick up true ghost stories books from the local Barnes & Noble and scare myself so silly that I won't make midnight treks to the bathroom. I'd rather hold it than have some spook jump out at me from my darkened closet. Check on the crying kids at 3AM? Not if I turn on every light in the house. Ty-man rolls his eyes whenever a new ghost book makes it into the casa because he know's I'll be paranoid for the next two weeks.

When I found out that the Ghost Hunters would be broadcasting live from the Waverly Hills Sanatorium on Halloween night, I set the TiVo to record. I would love to watch it live, but with trick-or-treat going on and a very tired Heather returning home, post costume-wrangling, tired-twins, giving-J-man-a-late-bottle, my rear was not hanging out on the couch until 3AM. The kids would have had evil Mama to deal with the next day and they could have performed their own paranormal investigation of the evil witch living in their home. So, I recorded the event instead. Since yesterday, I have watched snippets, 15 minutes here while eating lunch, 20 minutes there while folding laundry. Well, I just now, at approximately 12:45PM EDT, finished watching all six hours.

That's right. Six. Hours. Of. Boring. Ghost. Hunting.

Nothing happened that I could see.

No sounds. No lights. No shapes or shadows in the distance.

Nada.

Wait, there was one thing. Elijah Burke (a pro-wrestler with ECW) was a guest ghost hunter. All 6 feet, 1 inch, 230 lbs of pro-wrestler, screamed like a little girl and ran away when his cell phone fell off his pants. No. Lie. Dude. I could do better than that.

The Ghost Hunters heard, felt, and saw plenty. But me, nothing.

Ghost hunting via the boob-tube sucks. Now, my eyes are red, I'm exhausted, and disappointed.

I've got to move to Rhode Island and join TAPS. I'm leaving Ty-man a "Dear John" letter today. He'll find it when he gets home from work.

Dear Ty-man,

This whole motherhood thing has been fun, but I think it's time to put down the formula bottle and pick up an EMF gauge. J-man is a week away from being weaned. You can handle it. I'll take a six-month sabbatical and become a member of TAPS. Yeah. Cool. I'm not going to get paid for my stint as a ghost hunter, and you'll still have to work in order to fund my travels (food, gas, flights, etc). Hope you don't mind. You'll be working 8-hour days and taking care of kids, too. I know you understand. You and the kids will be just fine. I'll return from my ghost hunting a changed, enlightened person. You'll be frazzled, but we'll all be the better for it.

Love, Me

But, of course, if I do that, Ty-man will probably dispatch me out of disgust and anger, post-death I'll start haunting our humble abode, and TAPS will come here for an investigation. I'll get to meet Jason and Grant, just not how I imagined.

Dang it. Can't win.