There’s an Egg-Eating Ghost in My Apartment and There’s No Convincing Me Otherwise


Last night I arrived home after a GRUELING abs class to find myself with a real problem on my hands. It may not have been a problem in the eyes of many, but LeeMarieProblems come in all different shapes and sizes. As I went to prepare my nightly hodgepodge, because I have to taste at least seven different side dishes per meal, I noticed the olive oil I purchased the night before was unscrewed and missing about 2-3 tablespoons. A significant amount lost for something I haven’t opened (to my knowledge) yet. Hmmph. That’s odd. Maybe I’m destined to die from tampered olive oil. At least I’ll go with a belly full of cage-free eggs.

Oh wait…. There are only eleven eggs in this carton. What the? Who the? Why? Where is that egg? My roommate is in Virginia and Cheddar lacks opposable thumbs… so who is making eggs in my kitchen while I’m at work? And so my head began to swirl around the scenarios.

To prove to you people that I am, in fact, a somewhat lucid person, my first thought was that Shaw’s Supermarket is pure garbage—rife with homeless foodies who walk around dumping store-brand olive oil on stolen crusts of bread, thieving lone eggs to crack onto their electric griddles or the sidewalk if it’s hot enough out. So there’s my first thought. Since I am incapable of taking responsibility for any errors in my life, I refuse to believe that I knowingly purchased an opened bottle of olive oil and forgot to check my eggs before I bought them (SUE ME!). Perish these thoughts, people. I am infallible. Thus, scenario one is out the window. It had nothing to do with the supermarket. Sleep easy for now, Shaw’s. But from now on I’ll be inspecting things very closely. Keep your lids tight and your eggs stocked properly. Next time I won’t be so trusting.

So now Shaw’s has an alibi but the homeless people who frequent the benches in the nearby park don’t. I’m pretty sure they’re all on the kinds of drugs that suppress your appetite, but maybe they needed a single fried egg for survival? “Mack hasn’t moved for three days! Maybe someone should go into that first floor apartment and make him an egg!” And maybe they were respectful enough to just saunter into my kitchen, make the egg, and return everything to its original state? What lovely ruffians. Also, thanks for nothing Cheddar. I’m getting a dog.

Honestly I’d like to exile that thought very deep into my brain where it can never be found again. Although it did prompt the idea that maybe my neighbors , who I’m pretty sure hate me, somehow have a key to my apartment and broke in because they were baking and needed an egg and some oil? Just a little tip to you people – olive oil is not for baking. I’ve tried. I hope your pumpkin spice bread tastes like antipasto. And why can’t you at least leave a note? I’ve since dead bolted every single door, window and cranny in my apartment so even if the landlord himself wants to get in and fry up an egg, that’s too fricken bad for him.

A distantly conceivable explanation is that Japanese woman who lives in people’s cabinets and eats their food while they’re at work. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/2054057/Homeless-woman-comes-out-of-closet.html. If this bitch thinks she’s going to steal my food while I’m at work. Honestly, good luck to her. My cabinets are like a Navy Seal obstacle course. She’s definitely not just gonna be snoozing under there peacefully all night. She’ll have a coffee grinder, crock pot, pasta strainer, frying pan and baking dish all coming at her at the same time.  Not for nothing she could at least do me a solid and tidy up a little while I’m gone… especially if she’s gonna be eating my dairy products. And she better stay the hell away from my face cream and my good conditioner. And my handbags. She can have my tweezers I need a new pair.

The second most plausible explanation, and the second most terrifying, is that I am a sleep cooker. I know I’m becoming more and more OCD in my old age, and I do like a place for everything and everything in its place before I go to sleep or leave for work, but am I really frying up eggs and returning everything to pristine order during my REM sleep? I mean, it’s not terribly unlikely. It is pretty easy to make a fried egg without having to think or move. Pour in the oil, plop in the egg, plunk the cover on and wait five minutes. Maybe go use the restroom, finish up your dream about the first day of school, find the cool side of your bed, and then walk back in to collect the egg. Then did I eat it? In bed? In the kitchen? Did I throw it away? I need to check the garbage for clues tonight. Then I washed dishes and put the frying pan back? And somehow got the olive oil onto the sweet spot atop the stove where it doesn’t’ come crashing down giving you a heart attack every time you close the refrigerator door too hard? Asleep me is a freaking champion.

I guess I’ll have to set up a camera to figure that one out. Cross that very crazy bridge when we come to it. And all of this leads me to what is clearly the most reasonable conclusion to be drawn. I have a ghost. A ghost who has been studying me. Who has examined my lazy eating habits enough to know that egg and oil for me is like Foie gras and Filet Mignon to most. It can’t be that hard to levitate an egg. How the hell did he open the oil? Notice, also, that I assume my ghost is a man. Only a man would cause such a migraine in one’s life.  And why isn’t he cleaning the place while I’m gone either? And aren’t cats supposed to be able to see ghosts? That’s what I learned on the Science Channel. Thus, when I came to this realization… that I am clearly living with a ghost…. I walked around with Cheddar dangling from my hands. Facing the refrigerator, the stove, the cabinets, the kitchen table (maybe he sits down there and says grace first) and the sink. All he did was let out a series of low, aggravated growls. Fine. Go outside. You’re worthless.

Then I did the only thing left to do. I googled  confronting a ghost. Best to face this thing head on. In the first article I pulled up, this one lady cussed her ghost out. Apparently it was scaring her son. That just seems like a risky idea to me.  I’m not gonna start sassing the supernatural. And at least, as a friend mentioned, it isn’t a judgey vegan ghost, which we can tell by its hearty snack choice. So I stood by my counter, facing the center of my kitchen humbly (yes I can be humble), and I said “Ghost, I release you.  Please leave. Or at least please don’t eat my food. Thank you so much.”  I braced myself for some sort of earthquake or for the olive oil to come flying over at my face. Maybe all the eggs would crack in their carton or the frying pan would melt into a sea of blood. None of that went down. It was all pretty silent actually. I didn’t feel any chills down my spine. No hairs stood up on my neck. And when I lay in bed last night, in the fetal position, my entire body rolled into a hidden burrito with the exception of my eyes and my nostrils, I didn’t feel any cold breezes. Actually it was pretty friggen hot last night. All that tropical hurricane air swirling around. It must’ve cancelled out my ghost chills.

It was all very terrifying, regardless. You have no idea what it’s like to sleep alone on the first floor with either an egg-eating ghost, a Japanese trespasser living in the cupboard, homeless crack addicts breaking in to sustain their lives, potentially poisonous groceries or a newfound sleep-cooking habit. Any of which may take your life at a moment’s notice. All because you wanted to eat some godforsaken eggs.

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