The Ghost and Me

Things that happen:

My boyfriend tries to break up with me because he is afraid I am going to break up with him.

My landlord sees my butt.

I get a new job because I believe it will be better than my old job and it turns out that I am only working two days a week.

My boyfriend, after having failed to break up with me but instilling the fear of loss and solitude upon me, escapes to New Mexico for work and will not come back for two months.

I fart in the middle of a circle of people at dance rehearsal.

I interview for a position at an art gallery to supplement my suddenly minute weekly income.

I don't get the job.

And finally, the ghost in my apartment steals my remote control.

That's right. I said it. I live by myself. One day I come home and where's my remote? Nowhere to be found. I look underneath everything. I tear the entire couch apart. Nothing. I look in the fridge, the freezer, closets I haven't been in since I moved in. I look in purses. I look outside. I look in the damn fireplace. It's gone.

And the kicker is I have a new Comcast box. You can't even change the channel without the remote. So I am now paying $60 a month for internet access and the Lifetime Movie Network. David Hasselhoff and I become aquainted. A week passes. Two weeks pass.

With my new job, I am broke. I can't afford a new remote right now. The girl who lived here before me used to tell me that there was a ghost in the apartment. I'd never bought into it, but I'm stressed from lack of work and money, I'm lonely, I'm embarassed. It's been a rough couple of months. All I want is the damn remote. It's become my lost ark, my holy grail. I talk to me friend Brit.

"Just ask the ghost for your remote back," she says.

"I am not standing in the middle of my living room and asking the air to please give me back my remote," I say.

"Just a suggestion," she says.

We hang up and I stand in the middle of my living room. It's silent. My cat's staring at me. I take a step forward and:

"Excuse me," I say. "I'm sick of the Lifetime Movie Network. I know you must be, too." I pause. I look around. My cat's head is cocked to the side. He's worried I have finally lost it. Maybe I have. "I was wondering if you could please give me back the remote. Or at least, you know, gimme a hint as to where it might be."

....

Nothing happens. No remote flies through the air. Hey, it was worth a try. I sit on the couch, put my feet up, and suddenly feel the urge to search the couch one more time, just in case. I resist said urge. I've looked in the couch forty-seven times. I sit for a second longer, take a walk around the apartment. Sit. I stand up, pull up one seat cushion, and there is that remote, wedged right between two pieces of the couch. I dig it out, sit back down, and change the channel. I say, "Thank you."