Mystery Solved!

Well the Mysterious Mystery of the Midnight Marauder has been solved.

Spoiler: It wasn’t a skunk.

Double Spoiler: It wasn’t a bunny either.

I mean, I did get some video of a bunny scampering by the first night I put out the GoPro and this did make Opie think he had called it. And I had some pretty deep-seeded concerns that I would have to admit he was right all along.

But then this morning all was revealed.

I got up around 5:30, like I always do, and took the dogs out back. Again, like I always do.  But I knew immediately that something was wrong, that the jig (or critter) was up because instead of going into the yard, the ridiculous dogs ran around the deck, sniffing and scratching, scratching and sniffing, and generally causing a ruckus.  Sassy ran back over to the area in front of the back door and, just like a few days ago, began digging and barking at the flooring.

I snatched her up and got her inside only to realize that Bubba had darted off the porch and was charging across the yard exactly like a dog who doesn’t realize he’s 14 and should therefore have his critter hunting days behind him.

So, I grabbed a flashlight (it was 5:30, people, it was still pretty dark!) and charged out after him exactly like a woman who doesn’t realize she’s not so young herself and should therefore have her critter hunting days behind her.

Then, when I caught up with the Bub, I realized he was pawing and nudging this big lump of fur with his nose. And, at first, I was horrified because I thought that he had killed a bunny.

Until I took a step closer and saw it wasn’t a bunny at all. It was a possum!

In related news, as I was writing this blog I started wondering if it was opossum or possum or both and, being the research nerd that I am, immediately stopped writing so I could find out.

This, in case you're wondering,
is a phalanger.

According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, both are correct when referring to the marsupial that meanders around North America. It’s interesting to note that in Australia and New Zealand, there is a similar creature referred to as a possum that is actually a phalanger. Seeing as this blog is written in North America, that’s probably not relevant but honestly, I just can’t help myself. Anyway, what is relevant is that in the US, possum is the common usage while scientific journals etc. prefer opossum.  However, when referring to the act of lying on the ground pretending to be dead, the expression is always “playing possum” not “playing opossum” Probably because alliteration is awesome.

In any case, now you all know all you’ve ever wanted to know about the etymology of possum, opossum, and phalanger.

You’re welcome.

But, to get back to the overall point, I ran over to the side yard, saw the poor possum lying on its side, mouth gaping open, and had to literally wrestle Bubba away from it and in the house.

Then I ran back outside…I’m honestly not 100% sure why. I mean, Opie is usually firmly in charge of carcass removal. But he was up most of the night working and I was trying to let him sleep a little later and I guess I thought I was going to see if there was anything I could do before dragging him out of bed…

But none of that mattered because the possum wasn’t dead…it was, you guessed it, PLAYING POSSUM!

This isn't the possum in question.  It's a totally different possum
 playing possum. I'm including it to show you, they really
LOOK DEAD  even though they're faking.

And when I shone my flashlight on him, he jumped to his feet.

In other related news, we are now very grateful for social distancing as this may be the only reason the neighbors haven’t come over to complain about a woman screaming profanity in the backyard at 5:30 in the morning.

But, horrified neighbors notwithstanding, this leaves us with the problem of what to do about the possum that is currently squatting underneath our deck.

Because, tree-hugging, animal-loving, bleeding-heart liberal that I am, I don’t want to kill the possum. They don’t carry rabies, they eat a lot of ticks, they’re good for the environment, they’re cute in their own ugly way…but he’s not paying rent plus he’s bigger than Sassy and, tough as she THINKS she is, I don’t see her coming out on top in a possum vs puppy brawl.  So, I don’t want to kill him but I really don’t want him to live here any more.

My first step was to text my fellow tree-hugging, animal-loving bleeding-heart liberal and now possibly ex-friend, Eric, and ask what he thought I should do with a porch-dwelling possum

He said they really like cuddles and kisses.

Which kind of reminded me of the time I called Eric to find out what to do about the snake that was in the compost bin. That time he said, “You’re so lucky! You must have a really healthy ecosystem going!”

Which makes me question why I continue to call Eric in these situations at all.

In any case, Opie and I have come up with two very distinct plans. Opie‘s plan is to do nothing until I run out of plans.

My plan is to use water and light and loud noises to effectively convince the possum that our porch is no place to raise a family.

Failing that, I guess we could get some live traps put them out and trap the thing and then try to relocate it. At which point I will, obviously, take the day off work, drive to St. Louis and deposit the possum in Eric’s garage. Partially because you have to take them pretty far away if you don’t want them to come back. And partially because I really want to give Eric useless advice when he calls.

The long and the short of it is that the possum won the first battle but I fully intend to win the war.  I’ll keep you all posted!

This, sadly, is the only picture I got of the possum...and, yes, I know it's terrible. But it's not as easy to manage a flashlight & take a photo in the dark while also running away cursing as you might think.

Vacation 2019 -- A Little Preview!

Well, summer has just officially faded into fall and I bet that means the same question just popped into everyone’s minds: How come I haven’t heard anything about Eric and Kimberly’s annual vacation?

Which means the next thought that popped into everyone’s minds is “Wait, I don’t remember reading about their vacation LAST summer…or the summer BEFORE THAT…FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE DON’T TELL ME THAT THEY’VE GIVEN UP THIS FABULOUS TRADITION OR—WORSE YET—I’VE MISSED THOSE POSTS!!”

Which further means that you’re all braced to start frantically searching through this blog, desperately searching for the any sign of travel tales.

(It is interesting to note that I might have an overblown sense of my importance in your lives.)

In any case, fear not, Eric and I have not given up our annual sojourn into the silly side of life. I, apparently, just haven’t been writing about our trips. And I don’t have time to write about them all now but, rest assured, they’ve been as nutty as ever!  For example, 2 years ago we made a return trip to Roswell, New Mexico for the International UFO Festival. And while it was less dramatic than our first trip there 15 years ago (when we might or might not have trespassed on private government property), it was still chock full of crazy. We saw people who were literally wearing tinfoil hats or fairy wings or both.

 We once again spoke to The Alien Hunter (who told me my questions about alien abduction were, and I quote EXCELLENT). We met Travis Walton (famous alleged alien abduction victim). And, far best of all, we got to witness a rather heated diatribe by a woman who was furious that the Convention wasn’t giving more attention to the Reptoid Plot of World Domination.

Reptoids, for those of you who don’t vacation with UFO enthusiasts, are an ancient alien race of reptiles that are able to shapeshift into human forms and have infiltrated every powerful family in the WORLD. They are here to take over the Earth—and possibly the entire universe—because they enjoy feeding on and breeding with humans.

There’s a very complicated explanation involving the shadow government, the Rockefellers, the British Royal Family and any number of US celebrities but, according to the 2 books I bought dissecting this phenomenon, I am one of the many “sheeple” of the world, too blind to understand the danger.

Good times, my fellow sheeple, good times.

My point is, yes we still take our trip every year. And, although we didn’t go this summer, we’re going next weekend. Why so much later than usual?

For three main reasons:

1.     

  Uhhh, have you been reading the blog? Skin cancer and a new house, sheeple! I’ve been busy.

2.       Our original destination – a ghost hunt at the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City, MO – was hit by a tornado earlier in the year and the event was cancelled.

3.       There was a slight discrepancy between the vacation weekend on MY calendar and the one marked on Eric’s.

I maintain that when Eric visited this summer to help with the new house, we picked September 13^th as the weekend and he just doesn’t remember.  Eric maintains that we talked about September 13^th but landed on the 27^th as a better option and I just don’t remember…Opie maintains that Eric and I drink too much when we’re making plans and he’s surprised anyone remembers anything.

I’m pretty sure that’s his way of saying he’s on Team Kimbo and just doesn’t want to hurt Eric’s feelings.

Luckily for Eric, I was able to rearrange my schedule because, although one can search for the mysterious ghost lights that travel down an abandoned highway known as The Devil’s Promenade pretty much any time one wants, it’s harder to book a night in the garage apartment where Bonnie and Clyde hid from the police than you might think.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg for our weekend plans but if history teaches us anything, I think we can expect a lot of laughs, a few ghosts, and way too much alcohol.

I just hope we don’t run into any reptoids because the abovementioned books were so confusing, I still have no idea how to fight them off.

If you want to hear about some of our earlier vacations, feel free to check out any of the links below:

Scariest Vacation – The Villisca, Iowa Axe Murder House

The First Trip to Roswell

Why You Shouldn't Be Annoying When You're On A Ghost Hunt -- The Eldred House

The Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast

The Time We Literally Set a Guiness World Record

Blast From the Past

Well, it's almost everyone's favorite time of year: time for Eric and Kimberly's fabulous yet freaky summer vacation! 

For those who are new to this blog, I should mention we’ve gone every summer for the past 17 years now—yes, even after I got married.

Largely because Opie has NO DESIRE to go any of the places we’ve gone.  I tell him where we've decided to go, he stares at me for a long moment in horrified silence then says "Have a good time."

See, Eric and my goal is to go to the wackiest places possible, places no on in their right mind would visit. Which is why we’ve been to  The Lizzie Borden Axe Murder House,  The Waverly Hills Sanotarium, The Villisca Iowa Axe Murder House  (sort of an axe murder theme there for awhile), The Superman Convention in Metropolis, Illinois, Psychic Boot Camp, and  Snake World (which was basically a TRAILER in Arkansas that housed the largest private collection of venomous snakes in North America) and so on…

Let me tell you, it’s been HILARIOUS.

This year we're flying in the face of tradition and returning to one of the places we've already been: The Roswell, New Mexico Annual International UFO Festival.

Why?

Because it's been 15 years and who knows what kind of mindboggling breakthroughs have occurred in the field of xenoarchaeology?

So, when we return, I'll be sure to update everyone on our trip.  But first  I thought I'd share a blast from the past: the official record of our last trip to hunt UFOs 15 years ago...back when we were young, crazy and had a somewhat limited understanding of Government Security Clearance guidelines.

THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE!

Ok, as some of you probably are already aware, Eric and I took our annual vacation over 4^th of July weekend and as always, we chose a somewhat unusual vacation spot: Roswell, New Mexico for the annual national UFO convention. It was actually 3 conventions in one as there are 3 different groups who put on rival conventions all over town.

Roswell, for those of you who don’t know, is the place where a UFO supposedly crashed in 1947. The army first released a statement saying it was, in fact, a flying saucer. Later they retracted that statement and said it was a weather balloon. It is now the Mecca of UFO researchers.

We thought it would be fun to go someplace where we are the most normal people around. Most of the people, however, were deceptively ordinary--until, of course, they started discussing their abduction experiences, government conspiracies, and the malevolent alien plot of world domination.

But I get ahead of myself…it was quite a trip and I've included a detailed play by play but  it is ridiculously long so feel free to skim or not read this at all…it was just too funny not to share!

In any case, we began our journey on Wednesday, July 2^nd. We actually thought we were off to a good start because we began a mere 40 minutes late…this is over an hour better than our previous record! Unfortunately this fabulous start time was slightly marred by our nearly immediate stop and 10 minute search for the trip journal to record the fabulous start time.

Then any leftover euphoria quickly died when we realized that our planned route was actually 2-3 hours out of our way. Since we were supposed to stay with Eric’s parents, we had no choice but to press on. We did, however, peruse the map and come up with an alternate route home.

The rest of the day’s events are best illustrated in the following timeline:
10:50 -- First fervent wish for alcoholic beverage.
10:51 -- Loud chanting of “We don’t drink and drive, we don’t drink and drive!” Oddly, chanting did not dim desire.
10:54 -- Debate whether or not Kahlua really constitutes alcohol. Surely something that tastes so much like coffee can be considered coffee?
11:00 -- Vote taken on the status of Kahlua. 2 votes for coffee.
11:01 -- Search for Kahlua in backseat of car.
11:05 -- Realization that Kahlua is either still in St. Louis or buried in bag in trunk of car.
11:06 - 11:10 Cursing, finger-pointing and overall disgust concerning undetermined location of Kahlua.
11:15 -- Water chosen as healthier but infinitely less satisfying beverage.
12:36 -- First stop for gas.
12:38 -- Eric inadvertently locks car; panicked search for keys encompasses several minutes as we envision calling a locksmith etc.
12:45 -- Locate keys, enter gas station/convenience store.
12:46 -- Get into argument with clerk about true size of bag of ice. Insist that he is overcharging us for a $1.00 bag of ice as the sign clearly indicates 2 pounds for a dollar and we only have 1 bag.
12:49 -- Feel like idiots when clerk explains for the 3rd time that the bag we are holding is 2 and pounds.
12:50 Assuage each other's embarrassment by marveling how easily we can lug 2 pounds of ice around the parking lot.
1:55 -- Enter Kansas.
2:00 -- 5:30 Endless discussion of how far out of the way this route is. Eric maintains that route is better as more scenic and historical (Actual Santa Fe Trail!). My reply obscene and not included for fear of offending anyone still reading.
6:00 -- 10:00 -- Arrive at Eric’s parents. Have dinner, sit down with Eric’s mother and peruse map for shortest route to Roswell. I make sounds like “north” and “west” as if I understand what they mean. Eric tries not to laugh.
10:01 -- Realize no possible way to get to Roswell in under 10 hours. Plot Eric’s bloody death.
10:30 -- Go to bed so can get early start.

DAY TWO

Driving the second day included more wrong turns and directional struggles but we stopped a few fun places along the way--like the exact mid-point of the United States. This spot is exactly 1561 miles from San Francisco and 1561 miles from New York. We got out of car like big tourist nerds, climbed the hill to take pictures, then I stepped on cockleburr with my bare foot, hopped back to the car and complained loudly for next twenty minutes.

We finally arrived in Roswell around 5:30. Of course, the address that the online reservation service gave me was wrong so, just like last year, we went into the wrong hotel, went up to the front desk and demanded imaginary reservations. Then—sure that I was right and assuming that our room had been given to some other conference attendee with fistfuls of cash—I engaged in a loud, heated discussion with the clerk, insisting that I had booked a room days earlier. I even triumphantly waved my confirmation email in his face.

Which is when the clerk snatched the paper from my hand, pointed at the name of the hotel emblazoned across the top and said “That’s not us.”

I’m not going to lie, it was a little embarrassing.

The conference itself was great! My only suggestion for the organizers is that next year, they should indicate right on the program which presentations are best experienced under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs…for example, we went to one so called laser light show that I could have done with 2 flashlights and some colored cellophane.

Plus, I was astounded to learn that the truth about aliens has not been discovered because of a conspiracy between both the government and organized religion. Apparently, the government doesn’t think we can handle the truth and organized religions don’t want to admit that aliens caused evolution by interfering with our genetic structure millions of years ago.

It is now clear that this blog entry will not only cause me to be interrogated by the FBI, the CIA and other nefarious secret government organizations but I will also, no doubt, be excommunicated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again!

The first thing we did Friday morning was drive out to the actual crash site. It is about 35 miles outside of town and the road is only marked by a raggedy old sign. We got out of the car, took a few pictures, and another group of people told us that no one is allowed to go to the actual crash site anymore.

“All part of the government conspiracy,” I said.

Two of them nodded along with me but one woman shook her head and said, “No, I think it’s just private property now.”

“Allegedly,” I said.

And the other two nodded even more emphatically.

But you know what?

They were all cowards. 

They weren’t interested in what some people call “trespassing” but Eric and I call “exploring.” So we had to wait for them to leave before we could go ahead with our own search.

Oh sure, it was private property and yes, there might or might not have been but definitely were signs indicating the area was restricted by the government and yes, it was the middle of the desert where it was so hot I thought I might actually burst into flame and admittedly we spent over an hour driving up and down unmarked gravel roads avoiding cows and sheep and various other livestock but we did find the gated off area and managed to wander around a bit until we could identify the ranch house and the area in question.

Then, when we got back to the UFO museum, we saw a sign that informed us one of the reasons that the crash site is off limits is because of the “excessive danger of TARANTULAS and RATTLESNAKES.”


“The question is,” I told Eric, “did the government MAKE UP the tarantulas and rattlesnakes or did they PLANT THEM THERE to further the cover up?”

“We’ll probably never know,” Eric said

In any case, we felt suitably freaked out enough to spend the rest of the day getting freaked out by people giving convincing and somewhat alarming accounts of what really happened 50 years ago in Roswell…did you know that Jerry Marcel, the army guy who was instrumental in the alien cover up, came forward years later and basically said the government was lying, he believed that a UFO had crashed?

Weird.

Later we went out to a presentation at the Roswell fair grounds and it is interesting to note that slamming vodka and Sprite in 105 degree heat can occasionally induce feelings of nausea…this feeling is not noticeably improved by a 20 minute viewing of wobbly home videos of a supposed UFO. Was it a UFO? I have no clue, I thought it looked by a big black dot.

However, I turned my attention to the presenter and was mildly amused to feel a sort of “He’s a long-haired UFO chaser but what a great smile” type of attraction (it is possible that this was due to the vodka as well).

Then, sadly, he spoke.

“I saw me the UFO” he said. “So I went and got me muh videah camra.”

Then he revealed that this is what he does for a living; he sits around his house all day drinking beer, smoking dope (I’m speculating on this last bit) and pointing his “videah camra” at the sky for hours a at time.

I need this guy’s life.

After dinner (the highlight of which was cracking Eric up as he was trying to do a shot and getting vodka sprayed in my face) things were a little disappointing. We went to a presentation called “The Great UFO Mystery” and the biggest mystery was “When are you actually going to stop talking about astronomy and talk about UFOs?”

Eric and I tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes and witty repartee during the presentation but considering the woman right next to us actually got up and MOVED TO ANOTHER SEAT, I think it’s possible that everyone did not appreciate our humor.

Next we drove out to fairgrounds for a fireworks display …which would have been a lot cooler if the fireworks display had actually been scheduled for the fairgrounds and not behind the planetarium on the other side of town.

In any case, the last day more than made up for any disappointment. We met “The Alien Hunter” who makes his living investigating claims of alien abduction and perused his collection of alien implants. Strange as this may sound, this guy was actually NOT a loon. He was articulate, educated and explained to us the scientific methods he uses to investigate these claims.

Honestly, he freaked me out.

On the other hand, there were plenty of loons. For example the guy who said he got involved in UFO studies after a “strange being” entered his bedroom and touched him. Or the woman who was continually possessed by aliens and forced to run around her bedroom over and over again as part of some bizarre athletic experiments. Or the guy who was abducted continually for about 10 years until he found Christ and then he quit his job and moved to Roswell to start The Alien Resistance Organization in order to get the word out. He was even handing out stickers that had an alien head inside a circle with a line through it (like a no smoking sign).

You can’t buy fun like that, not in any store.

I had, of course, come up with an alien abduction story of our own but the only place where people were invited to share their stories was at the Biblical Studies of UFOs. Considering that one of their books blamed homosexuality on aliens and further considering I was already getting dirty looks for daring to wear a tank top to the presentation, I didn’t think we should tempt fate any further.

So we left, drove all night to get home and are now considering giving up our careers as teachers and becoming UFO researchers…

I'm not going to lie, this is going to be a hard trip to beat -- but we're leaving Friday and I'll let you know how we do!

Going Postal

We are, at long last, going to have our bathroom redone.  

This will be cause for great celebration, just as soon as the work is finished, because I have been wanting to redo the bathroom for years.  I won't celebrate until the work is finished, however, because I'm pretty sure the dogs are going to be absolute nightmares for the entire process. After all, there will be strangers in the house and any time strangers are in the house--particularly when Opie is NOT in the house--the dogs are convinced that the strangers are actually paid assassins planning to kill us all.

So, the work is supposed to start today and I thought the drama wouldn't start until the workmen actually arrived.

I was wrong.

See, the mailman just rang the doorbell, which usually means we have a package that he's going to leave in the door, he just doesn't want us to miss it. However today after ringing the bell, he waited on the porch so I had to go out and talk to him.

The dogs were pretty sure this was part of the mailman's ongoing nefarious scheme to murder us when we least expect it. And, ever vigilant heroes that they are, they kept up a hysterical cacophony of barking and snarling and flinging themselves against the door.

It is interesting to note that screaming "Shut up! Shut up or I will kill you!" Did nothing to deter the two crazed beasts from their rescue mission.

But I digress...the package, that's what I was going to talk about.

The mailman had a package that was presumably for us because it had our address on it. However it didn't have our names on it and it didn't have a return address. Plus there's like a bunch of postage due, which I have to pay without even knowing what's in the package.

The box in question

"It's weird," The mailman said. "And you don't have to accept it. But it might just be an honest mistake."

"Does this happen often?" I asked.

And he said no, that it's pretty rare.

"We're not really expecting a package," I said. "Unless my husband got some sort of early surprise for Valentine's Day."

But, honestly, I thought that was unlikely since A. Opie usually has packages for me delivered to himself at work. And B if it was for me I assume he'd at least put my name on it.

Anyway, this is when the mailman said "If there's something illegal in there and you didn't order it--"

"I assure you," I interrupted him. "If there's something illegal in there, we didn't order it."

"You'd be surprised how many people send drugs through the mail," he said.

"You'd be surprised how often we NEVER do that," I told him.

But he went through this whole spiel about how I'd have to contact a postal inspector and they'd come out, and not to throw the box away and on and on and on....

Then, because I have the unique ability to immediately imagine the worst possible scenario, I interrupted him to ask "What if it's a bomb?"

"I don't think it's heavy enough to be a bomb," he said, doing that thing where you keep shaking the package up-and-down to sort of determine how heavy it is.

Which, considering we were talking about a potential EXPLOSIVE seemed a little risky.

"How heavy is a bomb?" I asked.

And he admitted he has no idea but did I really know anyone who would send me a bomb?

"I think the whole point of sending a bomb is that the person who is going to get it doesn't think they're going to get one or nobody would ever open their mail." I argued.

He agreed and I think it's safe to say the mailman either thinks I'm crazy or he's my new best friend.

Anyway, in spite of the fact that the dogs were pretty convinced it was a bomb (and that the mailman was probably the one who had sent it!), I paid the postage, brought it in the house, and opened it verrrrryyyy carefully.

And do you know what it was?

Two bags of delicious, rain forest-certified coffee that my friend Eric got us for a Christmas gift. (Yes, I know it's February 8th and Christmas was a while ago but I do not fault him for this -- Eric and I have similar struggles getting to the post office in a reasonable amount of time for holidays...some of you may remember when I tried to ship his kids their Christmas gifts in a wine box. At the end of January.).

Totally worth the drama!

So, anyway, yes the outcome was a little anticlimactic, but the point is, now the dogs are extra hyped up and on red alert, Toby the handyman is due any minute which will not calm them down, and I am considering drinking heavily and and prank calling Eric the rest of the day.

The Ashmore Estate...Poltergeists, Punks and People Who Should Be Punched in the Face

Well, it’s early summer and that means one thing here : The Eric and Kimberly annual vacation.  For the past 15 years we have taken a trip together every summer, focusing our attention on attractions somewhat off the beaten path, places where most people don’t venture.  Places like the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast, the Annual SupermanFestival, Psychic Boot Camp and the Villisca, Iowa Axe Murder House.

It’s been fifteen years of full on awesome!

The annual selfie featuring our brand new EMF meter!

It is interesting to note that a lot of people still worry that Opie might be upset about the fact that, once a year, I gallivant around the country without him.

Which is why it’s important to mention that for the past few years Eric and I have strategically planned our vacation the same weekend as the NHL draft. This is perfect timing because Opie really likes to spend the draft on the couch, drinking beer, unencumbered by questions like "Who's that guy?" and “What kind of name is that?” and "Don't you think those jerseys are ugly?"

In fact, Opie was so excited about his bachelor hockey weekend that when it looked like the trip might be off, because Eric was sick, he was quietly horrified and immediately began suggesting alternative plans--ostensibly to make up for my disappointment--that would still get me out of the house for the weekend.

Besides, he also has zero interest in traveling to places like the Ashmore Estate for a night of ghost hunting, even if the building has been featured on Ghost Adventurers, Ghost Hunter and Children of the Grave.


The Ashmore Estate, for those of you who don’t have your finger on the pulse of the paranormal community, was formerly a really horrifyingly filthy county poor house, then an equally disturbing hospital for the mentally ill. Over 200 people are rumored to have died there and it is supposedly a hotbed of ghostly activity.

The Ashmore Estate is located in Ashmore, Illinois—and if you haven’t ever heard of it, don’t feel bad; there’s only about 800 people in the entire town. However, it is part of the slightly more famous Coles County, Illinois…which is where Abraham Lincoln’s father and stepmother lived and which is home to an enormous collection of Lincoln paraphernalia—like the fabulous Lincoln in a log:

And, even better, the largest Lincoln statue in the WORLD.

And I don’t know about the rest of you, but when Eric and I realize we are somewhere near such an epic landmark, we stop in our tracks to find it.  Even if the attraction in question is closed.  Even if getting a glimpse of this landmark involves a little something some people call trespassing and we prefer to call exploring and can only be photographed through the fence of the Charleston, Illinois Raceway.

I hate to say it, but doesn't it look
like the tallest Lincoln statue in the
world is flipping us off?

Seriously, these might be the two worst representatives of Lincoln I have ever seen in my life. Could they look any creepier? To be fair, it’s possible that the residents of Coles County have no familiarity with Lincoln’s appearance because he never actually lived there.  His dad and step-mom did but he was already grown up and out of the house but the time they moved to Cole County.

Which kind of makes all of the Lincoln paraphernalia completely inappropriate.

But I digress…suffice it to say that this whole Lincoln landmark disappointment was somewhat representative of our ghost hunt this year.

The house definitely had some spirit activity but our personal ghostly encounters were very limited.  In addition, we were hindered by 2 very important things:

This was the type of ultra serious ghost hunt that 2 goofy amateurs have NO BUSINESS participating in. Particularly if the aforementioned amateurs think they're practically professionals because they ghost hunt once a year and had recently procured a EMF

First of all, a measley little EMF meter (even if it did receive killer reviews on all the ghost hunting websites) looked pretty pathetic next to all the other hunters’ equipment.  There were about a dozen other people exploring the house and EVERYONE had an EMF. The only other clear amateurs were these 3 college kids who were half-drunk and even they had a video camera and some sort of voice recorder.  The others had video cameras strapped to their heads, they had EVP recorders, they had spirit boxes, they had infrared cameras, someone had this weird laser light box, and two other guys were walking around with huge headphones and some equally weird wand thing.

It was disturbing.

Especially when they’d just burst into whatever room Eric and I were exploring, start shooting pictures and blinding us with their flashes, then yelling “Sorry!” before scurrying away and waving their wands and meters in the air with reckless abandon.

It’s a miracle I didn’t punch anyone right in the face.

Which brings me to my second point:

Serious ghost hunters are annoying.

Serious ghost hunters take themselves WAAAAYYYY too seriously.  They don’t appreciate giggling, they don’t appreciate any suggestion of logic, and they definitely don’t appreciate questions like “What is that thing you have strapped to your head?”

Plus, once they decide you’re an amateur, they’re downright rude.

For instance, after exploring several rooms with no success, Eric and I settled down in the 3^rd floor lobby, a supposed “hot spot” in the house.  We put the EMF on the chair and began trying to talk to spirits in the room.  And just when things started to get interesting—the EMF started to give tiny flickers and then we heard something fall to the floor--this other guy came in, flopped his disgruntled self down in the chair next to me and muttered "This has been a complete disappointment!" Thus spreading his negative energy all over our hotspot and chasing our ghost away.

This is considered very bad form in the ghost hunting community.

Then the 3 college kids began telling everyone how they had gone into one of the other supposed hot spots and one of them had been briefly taken over by a spirit and was forced to do some Michael Jackson Thriller-esque moves against his will.

Personally, I thought this was the perfect time for the “bullshit” cough but the other hunters were all oohing and aahhing like the kids didn’t reek of beer and cheap liquor that they weren’t even polite enough to share with the group.

Which is considered very bad form in the drinking community.

Then, when Eric and I wanted to return to our 3^rd floor hotspot we found that it had been hijacked by the two women with the weird laser light box. The box essentially lit up the entire room and most of that end of the hall with hundreds of tiny green laser lights—kind of like we were at the couples skate at a 1980s roller rink. The theory behind this was that, if you sit very still and somehow manage NOT to have an epileptic seizure, you will be able to see the dark shadows of ghosts as they cross through the lights.

I would love to report how this turned out but Eric (possibly possessed by some evil spirit in the manner of the aforementioned drunk college kids) sarcastically said “Ohhh, pretty!” and we were made to feel unwelcome by the serious hunters in the room.

At this point, Eric and I were forced to resort to plan B: glom onto anyone who was having luck finding ghosts and ride their coat tails to paranormal success.

This is considered genius by the Hadley-Yates community.

In any case, we eased our ghost-affirming, positive energy selves over to the room where two women had seemingly connected to one of the spirits in the house. Their EMF meter was going crazy, lighting up in in response to the questions they asked it. Then, best of all, they had this little stuffed teddy bear night light thing that lit up when you pressed its belly.  They put it on the bed, stepped away from it, and said "Elva, are you still with us?"

And the teddy bear lit up.

I'm not too proud to say I almost wet my pants.

Unfortunately, the women weren't interested in sharing their success.  Once they realized they had an audience, they basically took their toys and went home, flouncing out of the room and saying "good luck." over their shoulders.

Then, as if they already didn't deserve to be punched in the throat, they looked at this guy whose EMF meter started beeping and said "There's an electric outlet above you.  DEBUNKED!" in a snotty tone reminiscent of over-entitled high school girls.

Seriously, this is obnoxious in ANY community.

That poor guy retaliated by getting out his spirit box and trying to convince us all he was hearing the ghosts talk. "Did you hear that?!" He kept asking.

And if he meant earsplitting static that made me feel like my head was about to explode, then yes, I heard tons of that.

At this point it was almost one in the morning so we had a choice: do one final sweep of the house, hoping for a last minute ghost to jump out and scare us to death or go back to the hotel and eat Double Stuf Oreos.

The fact that this decision was made with almost no discussion is a testament to why our friendship has lasted all these years.

So, in summary, the house may be haunted but you couldn't prove it by us, OTHER serious ghost hunters often need to be punched in the face, and Double Stuf Oreos are amazing.

K Is For Kimbo

So looking up K words I came across Kimbo—which is a noun AND my nickname so it was an easy pick! 

Kimbo – Adj. bent, or crooked and twisted.

Bent or twisted is a pretty good description of my life.

And the thing is, when you’re Kimbo, life isn’t always easy.

See, when you’re Kimbo the things that you find funny aren’t necessarily the things that other people find funny. Like about 10 years ago when I was still single and out with my friend  Eric and his partner Paris. We went to this bar in a neighborhood where Paris was once mugged. This might make some people nervous. Others—like Eric and I—feel the appropriate response is to leap from the car and make an exaggerated dash for the door of the bar while pretending  to avoid a mugging.

Then, if you’re Kimbo, you think it would be even funnier to jump over the curb like a Ninja. And, little known fact. Kimbos make excellent leapers (OLYMPIC QUALITY LEAPING IS WHAT WE’RE TALKING ABOUT HERE!) and I soared over the sidewalk like a super hero only to land awkwardly on the gap between the sidewalk & the grass. And then, when you’re Kimbo your ankle rolls, the ligaments stretch, strain, tear slightly,  and snap back like a rubber band. Which, of course cracks your ankle bone.

In the version I shared with my colleagues, I sensibly went home and iced the ankle until deciding to go the ER in the morning.

In the version that more closely resembles the truth, I decided that no one is seriously injured in a little ankle roll (this in spite of the fact that I was ready to puke from the pain) and self-prescribed several glasses of vodka and 7 Up then limped around to 2 different bars and Steak and Shake before calling it a night.

The next morning my ankle was roughly the size of a softball.

So, if you’re Kimbo, you wake your friend Kelly, head to the ER, get yelled at  by the nurse for chewing bubble gum too loudly, get a splint and come home with instructions to stay off the foot as much as possible.

Luckily, if you’re Kimbo, you immediately call your friends and get countless offers of aid and assistance and your weird neighbor even brings over a cane because the doctor at the ER is no orthopedist (you have to see him later in the week) and you were not issued crutches.

Unfortunately, if you’re Kimbo, your dog sees any combination of cotton and polyester as a chew toy and spends the day lunging at your foot when you least expect it.

Again, It’s not easy being Kimbo, make no mistake.