So I got a phone call yesterday. I should note that our phone is silent (unlisted) and we've only had the number for a matter of weeks. We also don't actually use it for anything. We only got the landline because we had to have it in order to get ADSL. The only calls we receive on it are telemarketers (though I've recently put it on the Do Not Call list, so that should stop) and the occasional charity organisation looking for donations. Presumably, they either guess the number, or they have it on their records from whomever had the number before we did. Since we never get calls for them, I assume the number has been unused for quite some time.

Normally when the phone rings I pick it up and quickly and gently put it back in the cradle, effectively hanging up on the caller (no, I don't worry about accidentally hanging up on someone I want to talk to; if I want to talk to them, they have my mobile number). Yesterday, I did this repeatedly and yet the phone rang every half an hour like clockwork. They couldn't get the hint, it would seem...

So I picked it up. I said, "Hello?" and the voice on the other end was male and very obviously Indian. Before I continue with this story, I want to make it very clear that I am not a racist and I have no issues with Indians. I've done business with Indian companies, I have had Indian (and Pakastani) friends and co-workers, and I quite admire many aspects of traditional Indian culture. I also understand that the call centres in India are staffed with people just trying to make a living, and I don't begrudge them that, particularly, so long as they leave me out of it.

Back to Raj or Punkaj or Shankar or Ganesh or Apu or whomever it was on the line. I don't actually know his name because he didn't tell me and I didn't ask. Because I've done business with a Raj and my husband works with a Raj, I'll just refer to my caller by that name (it's a nice name).

So Raj says, "Hello, I would like to speak to [unintelligible name that might possibly have been Chloë]".

Me: Nope, sorry. Nobody here by that name.
Raj: Oh, well, uh, is this [rattles off a number].
Me: [pause] Actually, I'm not sure. We've only had this phone for a couple of weeks and I haven't memorised the number. (This, by the way, is absolutely true. I wasn't just yanking his chain.)
Raj: Uh, well, I can speak to you... this is your number, right?
Me: Wait. Hang on. WHO did you want to speak to?
Raj: The person whose number this is. The householder...
Me: No. I don't want to talk to you.
Raj: Why not?! (Obviously now, he's off of his routine and totally rattled. He was practically sputtering at this point.) But it's about your number!
Me: Nope, sorry. Please stop calling.

And then I hung up the phone, but as I was putting it back, I could hear Raj's voice, filled with shock and confusion, as he tried to convince me that I should talk to him about my "number"... It's amazing the things that will make me smile.

I've previously noted in this blog that I've lived in a haunted building. For some reason, tonight I was thinking about another experience I've had with hauntings, and I thought I might share it.

I've had many experiences with ghosts and other strange presences, but I think this is the strangest. I can't explain it other than to tell it the way it happened (and I'd like to note that I was certainly not the only person who experienced these weird phenomena by any means).

In the late 1990s, while living in a medium-sized university town in the American Midwest, I had a roommate, R, who worked in a coffee shop a few blocks from our apartment. The coffee shop was in a building that had once been a theatre in the early part of the twentieth century. I was told by M, the owner of the business, that upstairs was an old vaudeville or burlesque theatre, although it was kept locked and nobody was allowed up there for safety reasons. In the basement under the coffee shop were some storage rooms and some old offices. The coffee shop's office was actually on the same floor as the shop, and it wasn't the only business in the building.

My first encounter with something odd there was when I noticed The Manager, as we came to call him. I couldn't see him, but I could "sense" him and get a kind of mental image of him (as could others). He was a short, balding man with a mustache, and he would come up from the basement and walk around the coffee shop in a set pattern. He probably went elsewhere in the building, as well, following a "circuit" of some sort. He didn't seem at all aware of anyone else, and he seemed to me to be mostly an "echo" type of presence rather than sentient one.

He was pretty much harmless, and a lot of people didn't even notice him, although some people seemed to notice odd cold spots in the shop. The shop's owner, M, knew about The Manager, however, and so did my roommate. In fact, she was present one night when I was standing in the wrong place and he walked right through me. All the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I got an immediate case of severe goose flesh. Fortunately, I knew what it was and I was able to just shudder and shake it off (I might have freaked out completely if I hadn't already become acquainted with The Manager and his rounds).

There were other presences there, though, that were not so harmless. At least one struck me as quite malevolent, or at least troublesome. I always had the impression that he was tied to the theatre upstairs, but I'm not sure why I thought that. I never really had a picture in my mind of what he "looked" like. This particular presence caused a fair bit of nervousness in some of the employees, knocking things off the walls, breaking the occasional cup, opening or closing doors, and generally being a nuisance. One girl refused to work at nights there after an encounter with this spiteful spirit.

This spirit, whom we came to call "Mr. Spooky", was in the habit of hanging around the front door and trying to menace people as they went past. Usually, the shop's owner opened in the mornings, but sometimes my roommate did, and I was there at opening a couple of times. All of us felt the presence of the spook waiting for us by the door. He would also sometimes hang out by the door at closing time. I encountered him there several times when I stayed late to walk my roommate home after work.

Finally one night I got fed up with Mr. Spooky, and I told him to go away. I had the feeling I should give him some specific instructions, so I told him, more or less on a whim, that he was not allowed into the building at all any more, and that he couldn't come any closer than the curb from then on. I had the distinct impression that he was furious about this, but he did seem to move to the curb, and R and I went home for the night.

The next evening, R came home from work and had a story for me that still gives me chills. Although her boss, M, had absolutely no way of knowing what I had told the spirit, M said that when she had come to open the shop in the early morning, she was surprised to see that Mr. Spooky was standing on the curb and didn't seem to be able to come inside the building at all! She said that normally he would be right by the door to annoy her, and M thought that Mr. Spooky did seem quite irritated and angry, although he also seemed unable to do much other than "chatter" angrily at her from the curb.

Like I said, I can't explain this. If it hadn't been for M reporting that Mr. Spooky really was apparently banished to the curb (without knowing that I had told him he wasn't allowed any further), I would probably have put it all down to my and my roommate's active imaginations... Also, as far as I know or experienced from then on, Mr. Spooky never was able to come inside to pester people from then on (although The Manager certainly still made his endless and harmless rounds of the building, and probably still does to this day).

Someday perhaps I'll go back to that city for a visit and see if Mr. Spooky really is still chattering angrily at people outside that theatre turned coffee shop. Maybe I'll send him into the Light, if he can find it (which is what I should have done at the time, but I didn't think of it).

Just after midnight, Andrew went to bed. I stayed at my computer, listening to The Beatles (Revolver, my favourite Beatles album) with the headset. By the time Taxman was over and Eleanor Rigby had commenced, Andrew came out wanting my attention. I took off the headset and said, "What?" He said, "Come here," in that tone of voice that I know means "you have to see this for yourself", so I went.

In our bedroom were a couple dozen small spiders. All over the ceiling, a few on the walls. I don't know how many there were because we didn't bother counting. It was quite amazing, though! A room full of little spiders! We did have the window open, but we figure these must have been hatchlings, from a clutch of spider eggs somewhere in the room. Given the placement of the spiders and the probabilities of where some spider would have been able to lay her eggs, we figure it was the ceiling air vent (the one for the air conditioning, which we never use because it doesn't work particularly well and it's quite expensive to run).

So Andrew said to me, "What are we going to do?" Now, I know that most people would have just grabbed a can of bug spray or something to swat them all to death, but we're not like that. When we can, we catch spiders and we put them outside. It's not always possible, of course, but we make the effort. We'll do it with other insects, as well, when it's feasible to do so.

The only thing I could think of was to get some containers and catch the spiders and put them out. Which we did. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to coax them into a jar, and Andrew found he could get six or so spiders in the jar at once. We had two jars; I periodically took one of the jars outside to turn the spiders loose. Just in case you ever wondered about it, it's surprisingly difficult to get baby spiders out of a jar. They can be very tenacious little creatures and persuading them to go can be challenging.

We did end up having to chase some of the spiders with a small broom, because to catch them Andrew had to stand on the bed (so we chased them toward the bed). One did fall onto the bed (eek!) but we found it and caught it. We got the one that was on the ceiling inside the closet. A few were caught on the broom, itself (they run into the bristles, then slowly come out and we put them in the jar), one was caught on a shirt. Only one died, and that was certainly accidental, but overall, given the situation, I think we did pretty well.

There are probably a couple more hiding in the edges of the room (the walls are panelled), but we'll keep an eye out for them and with any luck we'll be able to catch them, as well.

I'm hoping this will bring me some good karma, but even if it doesn't, it kind of feels good to know I've saved the lives of a number of spiders. And it's kind of cool to think of my bedroom as the site of such an eruption of abundance and life. It's got to be some sort of blessing, right?

I've previously written about the haunted building I lived in when we were stationed in Germany. Well, I didn't write about it here, but it's on several other sites (here's a link to the story at a ghost stories site).

Anyway, I was curious and did a search on Google and I managed to turn up some photographs of the housing area where we lived! It's been turned over to the German government now, as many of the American military facilities in the area have been closed or very seriously downsized.

It was really kind of weird seeing the pictures. I haven't seen any photographs of the place in many years (we left Germany in 1977), but I recognized it immediately, despite some changes.

The main site I found the pictures on is about the military downsizing and the reburbishment of the housing areas (several of them) and military bases. There's a very good picture of the actual building I lived in (link opens in a new window), as well.

In the photograph, the darker tan areas are where the stairwells are, and the one on the right is the stairwell I lived in. On the second floor, just to the left of the stairwell, is the window that was my bedroom. On the far right on the basement level is where the laundry room was; the ghost was in the room to the "rear" of the building, directly across from the laundry room (not visible in the picture, obviously, since it's on the other side). The ghost was tied to that other room, but would often stand in the laundry room doorway and stare at me (and others, but you'll have to read the story if you want the details).

The whole site actually has a lot of pictures of places I recognize. It's an interesting thing to see these after so many years. It's kind of bittersweet, as I have very mixed emotions and memories of those years (well, anyone who's at all familiar with my family will know that I have mixed emotions and memories of pretty much my entire childhood), and some extremely disturbing and also positive things happened while I lived in what was then West Germany...

Andrew and I were married on Easter Sunday, and we had an "afternoon tea" reception. Afterward, we and a few close family members went out to have dinner together at a nearby restaurant.

This particular restaurant had a table with water jugs, and somehow or other, we all ended up having water while we were getting ready to order (someone or other from our party brought water over to the table). This was a pretty upscale restaurant, and the glasses on the table were actually wine glasses, but none of us particularly cared, and we put water in them.

A waiter saw this and was apparently horrified by it. He came over and literally removed all the glasses of water and informed us that the WATER glasses were with the water jugs at the other table. Needless to say, we were all shocked and very, VERY amused by this.

It's now a family joke that you can't drink water from the wrong sort of glass...

Well, today Andrew went there for lunch with his co-workers for the Christmas celebration thingy that offices often have. I called him on his mobile phone while he was there, because I didn't know it was an office lunch out day and he wasn't at his desk (normally I just send him an ICQ). He told me where they were.

I said, "No one drank water out of a wine glass, did they?" Thankfully, no one had. (And yes, he told them the story while they were there.)

So let that be a lesson to you. Or something.

When Andrew was a little boy, his parents always let him and his brothers watch The Sound of Music whenever it was on television. Due to the time of evening it was started and the length of the movie, about halfway through it was time for little boys to go to bed.

This "about half way" point always occurred at the beginning of the puppet show scene. To Andrew's mind, the puppet show came on, his mother sent them to bed. He was probably nearly an adult before he got to actually see the end of that story about the lonely goatherd.

When Zoë was born, I was staying in a public hospital, so Andrew couldn't stay past a certain time of the night (when Miranda was born, he actually slept with us, but that's another story entirely, she said parenthetically). After he went home, I was watching television and The Sound of Music was on. When it came to the puppet show, I thought that perhaps I should call him to make sure he was off to bed...

Now, of course, it's a bit of a family joke with us, and it applies to all puppet shows, pretty much.

In a couple of weeks, Zoë's pre-school is going to have a puppet show, and as it happens, that's a day when one of us will be volunteering to help out with the kids ("parent duty"). I have, however, been assured that they won't send Andrew to bed if he turns up to assist.

Yesterday, Andrew was hanging around on an IRC channel for Haskell programming (yeah, he's a geek). The topic, of course, isn't always programming, and someone there who had a new baby was talking about the experience of being a father and Andrew, of course, had to volunteer that he's got children and people started exchanging baby picture links and eventually someone said to Andrew...

"Is your significant other named bonni?"

"Yes," my husband replied. "Why, do you know her?"

"Well, no," replied the other. "But I've been to BonniNet a few times."

I thought that was kinda weird, but I later found out that the other person is Australian, and that explains it a little better. See, I'm a member of not one but two Aussie type blogging rings, so I wouldn't be surprised to think of someone stumbling across my site and staying to wander around it a bit.

And bonni (that's how I sign my name on emails and posts and such; it's my login name, so that's how I end my posts, and it's also how I used to sign my paintings and drawings and suchlike) is a pretty unusual name.

Anyway, Andrew said he just thought I'd find the story amusing, and I did. I particularly enjoyed it when he added, "So I'm basking in your reflected glory."

Hehee. Well, yeah, I mean, I am pretty damned glorious and all...

Ages ago, I saw a sketch on The Two Ronnies, a British comedy show of the 70s (I think I saw the sketch in the 80s, but I can't actually remember now).

The sketch has "words" made up of letters. Example: F U N E X? when said with the correct "accent" is "Have you any eggs?" and the reply to that question in the sketch is, "S V F X." (Yes, we have eggs.) (The entire sketch is online if you want to read it, but it's a little hard to tell what all the words are meant to be by just reading it).

Anyway, I was quite taken with this sketch and found it extremely funny, and for years afterward when I went to buy eggs or get some out of the fridge or order eggs or, well, pretty much anything to do with eggs, I'd often say, "F U N E X?" Nobody ever had the slightest idea what I was talking about. I got a lot of strange looks over the years, which, of course, never stopped me (I'm used to getting funny looks).

When I was first living with Andrew, we were in the kitchen one night making dinner. I don't recall what we were making, but it called for eggs. I opened the fridge and took out the eggs and said, "F U N E X?" and Andrew responded, without missing a beat, "S V F X."

If I hadn't believed up until that point that we were meant for each other, that was what confirmed it. I was just amazed that he knew what I was talking about.

So there you go. How do you know your perfect lifemate? They know the next line of a favorite sketch from a British comedy show. At least, that's how I know. I have mentioned, haven't I, that Andrew's as big of a Monty Python fan as I am?

Regular readers will probably know I used to be a support tech for a medium large ISP in the American Midwest. I loved that job, although it could be frustrating at times, and I have to tell you, working at that job just completely confirmed all of my dislike of stupid people and confirmed all of my cynical pre-conceived notions about the nature of human beings.

And, frankly, working as a support tech will make ANYone cynical. I'm convinced of that.

Anyway, one of the places we provided support for had a reputation for being full of utter morons. There was a big maximum security prison in the city, and apparently a lot of families moved there to be near Bubba while he did his term for armed robbery or whatever. In fact, the prison was the only real ongoing industry in the city, which had once been fairly big and thriving, but economies change, etc. It had become a place with lots of cheap housing, which does tend to draw a certain sort of "lower" element of society...

I'll refer to this city as Dumbville, which was the actual nickname we used for the place.

A newish support tech was on the phone with a client. General Manger, who was NOT a Suit or a Sales Weasel but rather a techie who had a fair bit of business experience, walked into the tech lair. Newish tech is looking somewhat confused and/or stressed. Tech asks the person on the phone to hold, lowers the phone, and turns to the General Manager.

Tech asks GM question, something along the lines of, "This person is trying to do [something that should be really simple] but they can't. I've been on the phone with them for a while now, but I can't figure out what the problem is. Any ideas?"

GM mimes/says quietly, "Are they on hold?"

Tech sort of half nods in a non-comittal way.

GM then asks, "Are they from Dumbville?"

Tech nods tiredly and rolls his eyes.

GM then launches into a loud and highly derogatory rant about how Dumbville is full of complete and total morons. Tech goes pale. Tech raises phone to ear and stammers something like, "Uhhh... you there?" GM goes red. Phone had NOT been on hold. Client heard the whole rant. Client was NOT pleased.

I can't remember how they got out of that one, actually...

And no, the newish tech wasn't me. He did learn his lesson, though. He ALWAYS used the actual "hold" button from that day forward.

Some years ago, I lived in an apartment on the third floor that had a small wooden balcony. Late in Autumn, before we put the plastic weatherproofing sheet over the patio door, we put up lights on the balcony, sort of twisted around the railing. I thought it was kinda pretty, even though I'm not a big Christmas decorations type person.

Some time after Christmas, we noticed that the lights no longer came on when we flipped the switch (it was the balcony/porch light), but we couldn't get out to check because there was no way we were taking down the plastic film until spring (that stuff is a major pain to put up, especially over something big like a patio door).

Spring came and we took down the plastic and went outside and the lights were apparently just GONE. There was a little "tail" of the cord hanging from the plug, which was still in the light socket, but the string of lights was nowhere to be seen. We honestly couldn't figure out how anyone would get to the third floor to take them, but people have been known to do weird things...

Later in the spring, we went out to clean off the patio so we could use it, and there in the corner, tucked under some plastic chairs, was an abandoned nest, probably of a raccoon or a squirrel, and guess what was wound up in the nesting material? None other than our string of Christmas lights! It's a wonder the animal didn't electrocute itself chewing through the wire, and I'm really surprised we didn't hear the thing as it unwound the light strand, but we lived near a fairly busy street and I guess we just weren't paying attention (and the plastic on the window cut down a lot of outdoor noise).

There's no moral to this story, by the way. I just think it's kind of amusing.

I've had lots of different animals as pets. Dogs, cats, birds of various sorts, fish, rats, hamsters, turtles, mice. And it is of a mouse that I write.

Spot was called Spot because she had a couple of spots, and because I thought it was a funny name for a mouse. I had her, and some other mice, before I had a cat, because it's just not nice to the rodents or to the feline to have them where they can smell each other and make each other nervous.

Mice generally are not particularly smart, but Spot was special. She liked people, and she liked to be held. When a person went past her mousy housing (which was actually a clear plastic hamster environment), she'd hop up and down to get your attention, and she'd keep making a fuss until you picked her up. She liked to curl up in shirt pockets, although she'd just as happily curl up in your hand if you didn't have a convienient pocket.

Spot figured out how to get out of her housing and did it regularly until we finally figured out how she was getting out. The opening she was using was absolutely teeny, and I was so shocked that she could get out of there, but I caught her in the act finally and we took care of it. But until then, she used to like to go out on adventures in our apartment. When she was done roaming around the place (usually after a day or so), she would come and look for someone to take her home. She normally accomplished this by climbing into our bed and getting into someone's hand or just climb around on the bedspread until she got our attention (fortunately for her, if we knew she was out, we didn't react with shock and horror the way people normally would if a mouse walked around on their bed when they were sleeping in it).

Spot lived a pretty long time for a mouse, and she died peacefully of old age. Normally, I'm pretty unsentimental about disposing of the remains of deceased pet rodents (i.e., I put them out in the trash), but Spot was such a sweet, lovely little creature that I wanted to give her a more significant sendoff. I took her body across the street to the park and quietly and privately buried her under a patch of trees and shrubbery.

I still think about that little mousie. Of all the pets I've had, she's one of the ones who really stands out in my memory, right up there with bigger, longer-lived animals like dogs and cats. Pretty good for a little spotted mouse, I think.