Truth, Justice, Kimberly and a Gay

This is a little bit of a cheat (and a little bit late) but this week's Theme Thursday topic is road trips....and I was going to write a new post for it but this is old one  is about of the best road trips my friend Eric and I have taken...and it was written way back before most people knew I had a blog.  In fact, according to my blog stats, only NINE people viewed it.  So even though that's cheating a little, here's my road trip story...a little adventure I call Truth, Justice, Kimberly and a Gay…


This was the weekend of the annual Kimberly-Eric vacation and excursion into the stranger side of life.

And our destination?

The Superman Convention in Metropolis, Illinois.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking. You’re all thinking that this sounds like the kind of event where a bunch of weirdos meander around dressed up like their favorite fictional characters.

And you’re absolutely right. In spite of the fact that the town was rather hoosier and redneck in the typical manner of small Southern towns, there were a number of people of questionable sexual orientation parading around in tights, leather, masks, spandex and/or any strange combination of the aforementioned items.


Which is why Eric and my initial preparation for the trip involved getting ourselves costumes. His was easy; I borrowed a Superman outfit from a friend at work. My outfit, however, proved to be a little more challenging. I wanted to be Wonder Woman but unfortunately, there wasn’t a Wonder Woman costume in my size in the city of St. Louis…I found an XS, which I heroically tried on but seemed to be made for a small child. Then I found a Plus size, which I could have wrapped around my body six or seven times in the manner of the Lariat of Truth.

It is interesting to note that while at the Convention, I saw not one but TWO different women who had no problem walking around in form fitting Plus size Wonder Woman costumes.

These are CLEARLY not women who share my body image issues.

Anyway, my next step was to put together a Lois Lane costume, complete with business suit, heels, steno pad, and ridiculous looking Daily Planet name tag. But then, when we got to the convention, we saw that Lois Lanes in the costume contest were not only being judged against each other but also against the Supergirls. And the Supergirls walking around the first two days of the convention were basically slutty little sex kittens.

Which, in my younger, thinner days I probably would have seen as a challenge and immediately changed conservative old Lois Lane into a slutty little sex kitten all her own. But since I am now a mature, responsible grown up (I can hear you people snickering and I don’t think I like it) I decided not to subject myself to that kind of humiliation.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself…let me backtrack slightly. Eric and I left for the convention on Friday morning at 10:30…which was about an hour and a half later than we were scheduled to leave.

I blame Eric.

I, you see, was completely ready to go at 9:00…at least, I was ready if “ready” means packed but still needing to stop at Walgreen’s and the post office before hitting the road. Personally, I think it counts but Eric seemed to think not.

Anyway, we made it all the way to Metropolis, Illinois without getting lost once…and since Metropolis is a small town of only about 5,000 people one might think we could make it through the rest of the weekend without getting lost at all.

One would, however, be horribly wrong in that assumption.

Somehow, while navigating this little town, we still got lost not once but twice…and here’s some advice should you ever get lost in a small, redneck town:

When stopping to ask for directions in a gas station, do not honk wildly in the direction of 2 locals who are roughly the size of cattle as they will proceed to glare at you in a threatening manner for your entire trip throughout The Huck Stop.

When driving up and down a side street, looking for the correct turn, do not become so mesmerized by the sight of a bizarre combination of trailer/home/garden/trash heap all smashed into one tiny lot, that you drive back and forth in front of the lot five or six times snapping photos—in spite of the fact that the owner is standing outside watching you with what can only be called horrified fascination.

Some people, you see, find that offensive.

Some people also find hysterical laughter inside various and sundry Superman and Hollywood museums offensive. But we couldn’t help ourselves…I mean, the Superman museum had some cool stuff (like a bunch of costumes that Christopher Reeve wore in the Superman movies and a bunch of special effects gear) but also had some really weird stuff that didn’t look like it belonged in a museum. Like, seriously, how many life size Superman cutouts do you need to qualify as a museum??

The Hollywood Museum (owned by the same guy) was even worse. First of all, when a museum actually has a pig pen right outside it, it is hard to take that place seriously. Second, it seemed like it was a tribute to the Hollywood greats but quickly degenerated into a montage of large-breasted Hollywood women…I mean, is PAMELA ANDERSON really the first person who jumps to mind when you think of Hollywood greats? And is an exhibit of some of her tacky outfits draped over extremely busty mannequins really art?

Call me a purist, but I think not.

But these displays had a strange effect on Eric, clearly bringing out the testosterone in megadoses…in fact, when we went back to the convention, Eric seemed to think he had actually morphed into the Man of Steel…as evidenced by the fact that when we hoosiered out and went down to watch the Superman/Iron Man lifting contest and were, in fact, surrounded by a bunch of no-neck-having, steroid-using, wife-beater-wearing freaks with GINORMOUS muscles and shaved heads (a group not typically known for their universal acceptance of the gay lifestyle), Eric decided to announce that he thought he should enter the contest because he could match the lifters’ feats of strength.

The muscle bound freaks actually looked him up and down and laughed out loud. And what did Eric do? Said indignantly “Did they just LAUGH at me?” and actually considered confronting the aforementioned freaks and arguing his point.

Isn't it sad how a little bit of vodka , an overdone boob display, and a lot of Superman can affect one person’s sanity?

Honestly, I would have been afraid for his life except for the fact that most of the contestants in the lifting contest were also in this group called Omega Force Christian Strength Team, basically power lifters for Christ. In fact after the lifting contest (which I didn’t really understand the rules and regulations of…much less the lifting/grunting/beating self on the chest correlation) the Omega Force Christian Strength Team put on another little lifting demonstration of their own. They picked up different huge weights labeled “sin” and strapped themselves up in chains labeled “temptation” and dragged a bunch of crap around in the blazing sun while exhorting people to come forward and find their way to heaven.

And let me just say, I'm a Christian, I go to church...and that, honestly, is more my version of hell.

Then I was really, really tempted to jump up and “out” Eric to the Omega Force Christian Strength Team just to see if they could pray the gay away but then I had a vision of him getting tackled, wrapped in chains and dunked in the “pool of salvation.” A pool, might I add, that had seen a bunch of sin because it was none too clean…

Anyway, we both decided we needed a break from the strange combination of masked marauders and muscle-bound maniacs and went off in search of the grave of the Birdman of Alcatraz…apparently, he was buried just outside of Metropolis

After a lot of searching, we found the appropriate cemetery and immediately began a grid search for the grave.

Ok, to be honest, we don’t really know what a grid search is but we’ve heard the term on shows like CSI and Bones and it sounds impressive…what we actually did was traipse back and forth up the cemetery rows, complaining loudly about the blazing sun and knee-high weeds, while swilling vodka and Sprite in a noble effort to avoid bursting into flame.

But we found the grave.

A simple headstone with the guy’s name and a couple of fake stuffed birds jammed into the ground next to it.

It was a little anti-climactic.

Undaunted, we pressed on and went back to the convention for the Christopher Reeve Memorial. Which was cheesy but kind of touching…until these 2 obnoxious, slightly inebriated, hysterically laughing idiots burst into the room where the fans were having their moment of silence, interrupting the whole thing.

Ok, yah, that was us.

And you would be surprised how seriously some of the Metropolites take this memorial. It felt like we were back at the Omega Force demonstration except Superman was their version of Christ…the two people next to us actually began preaching to us in evangelistic manner, hoping we would come back to the convention every year so we could continue to learn and spread the ideals of Superman throughout the world. Luckily, we didn’t have a chance to explain WHY we were at the convention because we all had to turn our attention to the stage where they were actually having an open mike where people got up and talked about how Christopher Reeve A MAN THEY HAD NEVER MET affected their lives.

Anyway, this is getting pretty long so I will just jump to the final day, which was the costume contest, which as I mentioned earlier, we had decided to bow out of…but that doesn’t mean we were costume free. Because, you see, the last event of the entire convention was the town’s attempt to set a world record for the most people dressed as Superman gathered in one place. So, Eric and I bravely donned Superman outfits (not too figure-flattering by the way), tried again not to burst into flame, smashed together with over a hundred other similarly clad freaks, and stood in the blazing sun smiling for the official camera until the announcement was made.

Please ignore the horrible frizzy hair...heat and humidity are my Kryptonite

We set the record and actually made the Guinness Book of World Records!

Try to hold back your envy...and check out these other road trip stories!

Ladies, beware the bare!

OK, in case you think my life has been boring, let me tell you ladies a little bit about my adventure yesterday when I decided to investigate the murky world of laser hair removal…I’m sure most of you feel my pain and hate to shave the bikini line as much as I do. I don’t know if most of you have ever considered laser hair removal…I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time and actually took the plunge yesterday. Here’s an overview, in case you were thinking about checking it out:

1. Get up, then spend shocking amount of time in shower shaving the area in question.

2. Go to shop, try to whisper purpose of visit, stare at wall and pretend to be invisible as receptionist talks to nurse/technician in loud voice about treatment.

3. Go into laser lab, discuss different types of treatments available. Assure nurse/technician that am not interested in full frontal nudity but would prefer a “landing strip” approach.

4. Assure technician that do not want “rectal area” probed with lasers EVER.

5. Tell technician that your “rectal area” is definitely off limits as it is clearly EXIT ONLY.

6. After technician goes to get laser, take off jeans and boots, leave on socks because am freezing, take off underwear, put on bizarre paper panties with drawstring sides.

7. Slip on enormous eye-protective goggles and try to imagine size of laser that can somehow damage eyes while supposedly aimed at crotch.

8. Climb on table to wait and try to imagine vision of self sitting on lab table with paper panties, red sweater, knee high socks and space goggles. Laugh hysterically, thereby alarming technician who is waiting outside and completely unused to laughter in the laser lab.

9. Assure technician that really are not a nutcase.

10. Lie back and let technician inspect crotch with some sort of magnifying glass, flicking and poking.

11. Watch in horror as technician begins to DRY SHAVE bikini line. Make nervous jokes like “Just a little off the top” then jump a foot when technician slops an inordinate amount of cold goo on bikini line so laser can “find hair.”

12. Nod appreciatively as technician warns that procedure may cause “slight discomfort.”

13. Yell curse word as “slight discomfort” becomes “shocking, strange and unexplainable pain.” Not unbearable, unexplainable. If you’ve never had a laser in your crotch, you don’t understand. You can’t.

14. Spend 10 minutes in so-called slight discomfort, mentally reviewing every curse word have ever learned while nurse/technician turns into cheerleader, saying things like “Good job!” or “There we go!” or “You’re doing great.” As if lying on table with laser in crotch is something that requires some kind of skill.

15. Interrupt cheering and attempt awkward conversation with nurse/technician about all the horrible things she’s seen in her crotch-coiffing career. Interrupt self to demand what horrible smell permeating room is.

16. Do NOT feel comforted when told horrible smell is CROTCH HAIR BURNING.

17. Listen to nurse/technician explain that laser burns the hair in the follicle (hence horrible smell) and that in the next few weeks hair will start to push through skin, as if growing, then fall out.

18. Have horrible vision of self walking through halls of school shedding pubic hair in tornado-like cloud. Become overwhelmed with giggles at vision , have difficulty dressing self.

19. Actually MAKE APPOINTMENT FOR SECOND TREATMENT SINCE NEED 4 OR 5 FOR FULL EFFECT!!!!!

Yes, that’s right, I’ll be doing this three or four more times…stay tuned…
For other great hump day posts, please click the link below:

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Predators, Poltergeists, and Elvis Presley

Predators, Poltergeists and Elvis Presley?

Yes, it was that time again…the annual Haugh/Hadley vacation.

And yes, to answer the question that is probably at the forefront of everyone’s mind, yes we did get lost. In fact, it might be a new record of wrong turns, mis-directs, and out-and-out discombobulation. At one point, as we were on what was supposed to be a short jaunt to Amish country, we spent approximately 40 minutes on a gravel road that I am convinced doesn’t really exist. It’s one of those roads that only pop up in Twilight Zone episodes, Stephen King novels and journeys made by foolish travelers who willfully disregard their father’s rather precise directions.

It took me about 10 minutes of driving on this road to determine that it was, in fact, the road to Hell…a suspicion that was confirmed by the presence of these vicious Hell-hounds that burst out of nowhere and attempted to leap into my tiny little car.

Picture this: Eric and I are creeping along at approximately 20-30 miles an hour because I don’t want gravel flying up on my new car. We round a corner and 4, count ‘em FOUR, vicious beasts—each roughly the SIZE of my new car—fly into the road, barking and snarling, and otherwise indicating that they have been trained to kill. Eric tries to maintain that they might be friendly but I know I saw blood lust in their beady little eyes…plus, they were barking and chasing the car in a decidedly unfriendly manner….although, to be fair that could be because:

I kept screaming things like “They’d kill you as soon as look at you!” and “Bloody fangs, I see bloody fangs!”

I hit the gas like a maniac, inadvertently spraying gravel all over the dogs. Which, in case you didn’t know, is somewhat irritating to Hell-hounds and regular dogs alike.

This encounter, interestingly enough, led to us getting even more lost because afterwards I refused to turn the car around and retrace our steps. I mean, what person in her right mind voluntarily offers her throat to the HELL HOUNDS? Anyway, eventually we found our way to civilization—where Eric, in spite of his Mennonite roots, was the one who offended the Amish because he forgot that he had stripped down to near-nakedness in order to get some sun on our incredibly long journey.

Personally, I was shocked.

In any case, moving on to the next question that some of you might have: Were all of the activities we participated in legal in all 50 states?

In a word, no.

See, as most of you have learned in previous emails, Eric and I have a fondness for what we call “exploring” and a lot of people—particularly those martinets in law enforcement—call “trespassing.”

And when we’re meandering about the God-forsaken wilderness, shortly after a brush with actual hellhounds and we see a lookout tower…well, we can’t help ourselves. We have to slam on the brakes, careen wildly off the road and dash over to “explore.”

Some might have been put off by the “do not climb” signs painted on the side of the tower. Others might have balked at the fact that the rather rickety stairs had no railings. Still others would have decided that the removal of the bottom two set of stairs was a prime indicator that the tower was off-limits.

None of these things kept us off the tower.

What kept us off the tower was the fact that while age has not brought us wisdom, it has brought us additional weight and limited agility. Therefore we couldn’t actually haul ourselves up far enough to reach the rather rickety stairs…although Eric did give it the old college try.

Which would have been disappointing in the extreme except for the fact that on our last night, while we were on an after-hours search of Thunder Mountain State Park—looking for the ghosts of the Osage Indian tribe that supposedly haunt the area—we came across another tower. And not only was the “keep off” sign on this one faded almost into invisibility, the stairs were also intact.

It was like God turned back time and gave us a second chance.

But I’ve gotten way ahead of myself here…let me back up to the first day and talk about the rest of our trip. We had decided on Predators, Poltergeists, and Elvis Presley as a theme because I’d found a bunch of different museums and tourist attractions that were so random and bizarre they wouldn’t be crowded.

First, we attempted to go to the “Elvis is Alive” museum but in spite of the 20 foot painted Elvis out front and the sign that said “Come see the funeral room!” The museum wasn’t open. According to the sign, it should have been open but it wasn’t.

Which is not usually a prime indicator of a well-respected tourist attraction.

Although, it might have been a little more respectable than our next stop: Snake World.

“Where is Snake World?” One might ask.

Berryville, Arkansas. Population 4,433.

Where is the last place in the world that Kimberly Haugh and Eric Hadley blend in?

Berryville, Arkansas. Population 4,433.

See, when you’re in places like Berryville, Arkansas or, even better, Blue Eye, Arkansas (population 126) it’s a good idea NOT to do any of the following:

1. Notice a sign that says “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit” and ask for butter.

2. Decide that two pigtails is a good look for a man…even if it does keep the hair out of your eyes better than a single ponytail (It is interesting to note that shortly after Eric arranged his hair in this fashion, I began calling him Ponyboy Hadley…although not until I tried out a slue of other nicknames that were apparently offensive, insensitive, and downright rude.)

3. Attempt to establish redneck camaraderie by pretending to be from a small town in Missouri named Butler…who would have guessed that someone in Berryville, Arkansas would have known the social calendar of Butler, Missouri????

4. Stop at an establishment simply labeled “The Big Sale” and peruse the scariest collection of junk ever thrown together beneath a proudly waving Rebel Flag. If you do stop, however, it’s probably a good idea NOT to sneak around and “explore” the backyard so you can take a picture of the assorted junk there too.

What you should do is make sure to keep your car “perched for flight” at all
times—backing into parking spots and leaving the top down—so you can run over and jump in Dukes of Hazzard style, should you need to make a quick getaway.

Trust me, we were perched for flight our entire time we were in Arkansas, especially at Snake World.

Which is, for the uninitiated, the home to one of the largest private collections of venomous snakes in North America…kept tightly confined in A TRAILER in Berryville, Arkansas.

Yes, you read that correctly. A trailer.

A trailer with one hand-painted sign advertising baby pythons and another explaining that hours were “by chance.”

And chance wasn’t immediately with us because the Snake Man wasn’t there when we first arrived…but he’d painted a phone number on the sign so we gave him a ring and he zipped over from his real job (apparently Snake World isn’t a full time career, who knew?) and offered us the complete tour.

“It’s very educational,” he promised.

And it was…though I wasn’t really thrilled with some of the things I learned. Like, I thought it was cool when he sort of snuck up on the spitting viper, smacked the glass of the aquarium and the little monster spat venom at us. But I could have cheerfully lived my whole life without knowing that if you get that same venom in your eyes in the wilds of Africa and you’re low on water, your friend should PEE IN YOUR EYES.

I told Eric I’d rather go blind.

I also would have been content not seeing the shocking number of shed snake skins on the floor, now knowing that a “piller case” is a great “snake sack” and that in some countries Madagascar hissing cockroaches (which he had in another aquarium) are becoming a popular protein choice.

I told Eric I’d rather starve.

But I did learn a lot about the care and coloring of the snakes of the world…none of which I will ever, unfortunately, use since I react to any and all snakes with the same panic and hysteria that I displayed in my encounter with the Hell hounds.

You would think that once we left Snake World we would also leave behind disturbing conversations about urine but nooooo, the subject came up again at our next stop, the exotic cat rescue. It was, in fact, the largest big cat refuge in the world! It’s 450 acres of land where rescued tigers and lions and other wildlife are allowed to live out their days in peace.

Can you believe that the majority of these tigers are rescued PETS? People had these things in their backyards, houses, etc. You know why? Because most people are crazy, that’s why.

Anyway, there we were, touring the habitat, hearing how wonderfully content these tigers are in their new home when we learned 2 really important things about tigers:

A. They pee to mark their territory…including peeing ON people who enter what they perceive as their territory.

B. They can spray that pee about 8-10 FEET.

Luckily, neither Eric nor I were hit with tiger urine but this one guy in our group was…which sent the tour guide into paroxysms of laughter as she explained that they would give him a new shirt when we got back to the office, one that said “I got sprayed at Turpentine Creek Tiger rescue.”

And though I am cheap as hell and always on the lookout for free things, I did NOT want that shirt.

Anyway, this is getting really long and you guys are probably all sick of hearing about predators, poltergeists, and pee so I will close by saying we’re glad to be back, we know you’re glad you weren’t with us, and we have already picked a theme for next year…

Colorado cannibals here we come!

Villisca Iowa Axe Murder House...Vacation 2006

Well, it's the last Theme Thursday and this week's topic is Halloween...and I have to admit I'm sort of a Halloween loser. Before moving to Oklahoma, all I would do was drive to 2 hours to my brother's house, take tons of pictures of his kids and drive 2 hours home because I usually had to work the next day. 

 

Opie and I did go to a Halloween party last year but I can't post pictures of that here because we went as Killer Bees but the fabric of my costume was apparently a lot cheaper and stretchier than I had realized and by the time we got around to taking pictures, my look was really more Stripper or Porn Star Bee. 

 

And no one wants to see THAT.

 

But,  I am into ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night. So much so, that my friend Eric and I go on ghost hunting trips as often as we can and I thought I'd share the story of one of the freakiest trips we went on. This is the description I wrote of our trip to the Villisca Axe Murder House back in 2006.

 

 

First some not so funny, incredibly gruesome background (for those who want more detailed background, check out this website: http://www.villiscaiowa.com/index.htm ).  The Villisca Axe Murder House is so-named because in 1912, 8 people (2 adults, 6 kids) were bludgeoned to death inside the place with, obviously, an axe.  The forensic evidence and court documents from the time indicate that the killer or killers probably hid in the house before the family got back from a church program and waited until everyone was asleep to come out and bludgeon (loving the word bludgeon, it’s just so creepy!) them.  The newspapers said that everyone was killed in their sleep but modern forensic detectives have examined the gouge marks in the ceiling (from the back swing of the axe) and the blood spatter and determined that some of the people did try to run.  There were a few different suspects but the killer or killers was never found.  The house itself has been featured on the show “Scariest Places on Earth” and is supposed to be one of the most haunted places in America.

Which pretty much makes it second only to Roswell, NM’s National UFO Convention as a prime vacation destination for Eric and I.

In any case, Eric’s schedule has been hectic this summer so our trip was pretty much spur of the moment…which gave us a few minutes of concern because it is harder to book a reservation in an axe murder house than one might think.  Luckily, weeknights are a little easier than others so we threw all our junk in the car and took off…

Sadly, we were only 5 minutes into the trip before we realized that neither one of us had remembered to bring a map.  But since we had our handy-dandy Yahoo directions, we decided to press on.

 It is interesting to note that Yahoo Directions include the following warning on the bottom of their directions:  When using any directions, it’s a good idea to do a reality check and make sure the road still exists and/or isn’t under construction.  This is only to be used as an aid in planning.

Reality check?  REALITY CHECK?  Reality is for people who are too scared to drink…seriously, who thinks we CHECKED the route?

Of course we didn’t check!  Checking would imply a lack of confidence in Yahoo.  Checking would hint that we did not trust our own innate navigational abilities.  Checking would mean we had actually READ THE STUPID WARNING before we were sitting in the middle of some untamed wilderness with limited cell phone service (think Deliverance).

You know what else we realized at that moment?  Cell service didn’t much matter as we had also neglected to bring the phone number of the Axe Murder House owner…a fact that some of you were noticeably unsympathetic about when we finally did manage to call and/or text message you and explain our plight.

Luckily, a few calls later, we managed to get back on track and eventually found our way to the Axe Murder Museum…at which point I stopped imitating the dueling banjos from Deliverance and started making Texas Chainsaw Massacre comments. 

First, let me describe Darwin (the owner).  He’s an older gentleman who just screams “Good old boy!”  He drove up to the museum in his black pick up truck, got out and straightened his blue and white striped bib overalls, and smiled…which is when I noticed that all his bottom teeth were missing and had been replaced by silver caps. (I really, really wanted to start singing Nelly’s Grillz, …you know, “smile for me daddy, lemme see your grill!” but A. I didn’t think he’d recognize it and B. It’s never a good idea to piss off a man who is the proud owner of an axe murder house.)

So silent, we went into the museum.  Which had all this cool stuff but was organized even worse than the junk box under my bed…I personally think Darwin has simply gone to every garage sale in Villisca, IA for the last fifty years and bought the museum as a storage room.  Very weird.

But not as weird as the tour he took us on next.  He told us he’d show us the church the family had been attending right before the murders, the houses of a few suspects, etc.  Then he got in his pickup, Eric and I got in my car and we followed him around town.  Followed him as he drove in circles without slowing down and pointed out the window.  Eric and I had no idea what the heck we were supposed to be looking at, though, to be completely fair, that might have been because we were both laughing so hard I almost ran off the road.

After this enlightening bit of travel, we stopped by the cemetery to see the graves (we were allowed to get out of the car for that one), then finally made it to the house…which has no electricity, no indoor plumbing, and was approximately as hot as the surface of the sun.  A situation which was not noticeably helped when Darwin lit about a million kerosene lamps and lanterns for us…

At this point, Darwin took us upstairs and  I got so sick to my stomach, I could barely hear what he was saying.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I really feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Yah," he said.  "That happens all the time up here.  You're leaning against the closet that experts think the murderer was hiding in."

Creepy...and I got that same sick feeling every time we were upstairs.

And that's when Darwin left us alone in the house to conduct our intensive paranormal research.

 

First, we set up our “base of operations” in the living room.  This was right across from the bedroom where 2 neighbor girls who were spending the night were killed and right next to the screen door, but was the lesser of 2 evils as the only other option was upstairs where 6 people were killed in close quarters.  We piled sleeping bags on the floor (hardwood floor, by the way, NOT COMFORTABLE!), then got out our voice activated tape-recorder and our notebooks (one of us also got out our grandmother’s rosary and bottle of holy water to prepare for a possible exorcism of evil spirits but I will leave it to you to figure out which one that was).  Suitably armed, we began to explore.

 

Scoffers and non-believers may want to skip this next part but I assure you, Eric and I were plenty freaked out by the events of the night.  In any case, our experiences in the house were as follows:

 

·                    Took our voice-activated tape recorder upstairs and put it in the closet that the killer(s) supposedly hid in.  Got horrible sick feeling in my stomach every time we approached the closet.

 

·                    Knocked over lantern, couldn’t get it to relight.  Eric accused me of breaking some important oxygen-releasing device but I choose to believe it was evil spirits.

 

·                    Tried to call out on cell phone (read that cell phones have trouble there, even when full signal is available) while Eric played the piano (read that the piano draws the ghost of the woman in the house)  Cell phone hung up exact same moment that Eric hit first note. 

 

·                  Tried “scrying” with a crystal that’s in the house for the purpose.  You do this by dangling the crystal from a hand or finger, waiting until it’s still, then asking it a question.  If the crystal moves one way, that means yes.  Moving the other way means no.  Asked questions, got responses, couldn’t decide if we were moving crystal or not so later put it back on pedestal and asked questions.  Crystal continued to move, though not as much.

 

·                 Discussed murder for way, way too long, resolved to check every closet of my home every night for the rest of my life.  Couldn’t decide how to deal with a newly discovered axe murderer in closet, elected to think about it later.

 

·                    Checked voice-activated tape recorder several times, getting sick feeling each time by closet, and getting excited when realized it had taped quite a few things.  Laughed hysterically when realized that most of the tape was a recording of Eric and I laughing hysterically downstairs.  Moved recorder to different locations.

·                    Returned downstairs, realized rug in living room—which had been completely straight when went upstairs—was disheveled and almost turned over.
 

·                    Freaked out a little.

 

·                    Discussed rug indefinitely.

 

·                           Try to blame things on drinking, realize that in spite of frequently witnessed  predilection for such activity, neither of us has had more than one drink (quite possibly strangest event of entire night!)

 

·                           Blew out half the kerosene lamps before contracting lung cancer or bursting into flame, got out flashlight so could read while Eric took brief nap.

 

·                Fell asleep with flashlight ON…but flashlight was OFF when woke up 2 hours later.  Flashlight was still working but had definitely been turned off.

 

·                           Woke to strange sounds of undetermined origin.  Felt cold chills and heard sounds upstairs.  Listened to odd thumping for approximately 20 minutes, then tried to wake Eric to see if he could hear same.  He heard a little but fell back asleep before I could convince him to go up with me and investigate.  Decided would rather cut off own arm than go up and explore alone.  Fell asleep again few minutes later.

 

·                           Eric awakened by strange feeling of something tugging on his shirt and pulling it up.  Eric unable to move for long moment.

 

·                           More freaking out.

 

·                           Return upstairs for final time to retrieve tape recorder from closet in children’s room.  Do NOT get sick feeling this time…but do hear the sound of thumping on tape.  Wonder what it is, then decide that it sounds like the closet door opening and shutting, open mouth to say this when closet door rattles and thumps exactly as on tape.

 

·                           Freak out a little…though Eric, the scientist, wants to make sure that thump is not natural occurrence.  Watch Eric jump up and down, trying to make door thump.  Point out that not only is he unsuccessful, but that we have also been up in room at least 5 times and the door has never, ever moved.

 

·                           Record our experiences in notebook Darwin has left for the purpose, pack up and discuss the experiences for 6 straight hours.  Resolve to return again in the future for more experimentation.

 

Like I said, I know many of you will scoff at this and I probably wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there but it was definitely worth the trip!  And we seriously might go back next summer so let us know if you want to come with us, the more investigators the better!

Houston We Had A Problem

Ok, here’s a travel tip for one and all…if you are supposed to catch a plane at 7:45 and your friend is picking you up to leave for the airport at 6:00 it is usually a bad idea to decide to start watering all the flowers in your backyard at 5:55.

This is an even worse idea when you aren’t 100% finished packing for the trip…

Thus began Eric and my vacation this year, a little journey I like to call “Houston, We Have A Problem.”

In any case, after I finally realized that Eric was pounding on the front door with all his might, I quickly let him in, threw the rest of my stuff in my suitcase, and we got started for the airport a mere 37 minutes behind schedule.

And, interestingly enough, after we found out our flight was delayed and we settled in for a long night of vodka-drinking and card playing, it only took about 37 minutes for the first offended bystander to move away from us.

Undaunted, we pressed on.

Then, when we finally got on the plane, I spent approximately 37 minutes explaining to Eric all the different way death by plane could occur.

Undaunted, he drank on.

In any case, once we were safely on the ground in Houston, we stayed with our friends Brett and Rhoda and their adorable cow, Esau. Interestingly, they kept referring to Esau as a dog but since we all know dogs must be able to be carried under one arm or stuffed in your purse, I can only conclude this near 100 pound beast must have been a cow. A friendly, really cute, well-trained cow but a cow none-the-less.

We had a great time with all of them…although some of you may pity Brett since he spent an unbelievable amount of time driving Eric and I around Houston. He even agreed to take us an hour away to the National Museum of Funeral History.

And believe it or not, there wasn’t a huge crowd at this museum…we didn’t have to stand in line or anything! We got right in and were immediately to peruse the GIFT SHOP which featured items like “Death Salsa” and “Chocolate Coffins” and T-Shirts that read “Any day above ground is a good day.”

You know, it’s a little challenging to discover a place that I find too tacky for words but this place definitely qualified…although that didn’t stop us from hysterically giggling as we pointed out typing in the different displays and taking a few photos of questionable taste.

NASA was the next stop in our little journey (from death to the moon in one day!) but we decided that we needed some liquid refreshment before going any further so we tried to find any place that sold vodka.

This, unbelievably, was a much more difficult task than one might imagine.

Eric and I kept pointing out little gas stations etc to Brett (I’m sure THAT wasn’t annoying at all) but none of them carried package liquor. You could buy individual cold cans of beer but no vodka, what’s that about? Even the skeevy little gas station in the hood that we stopped at only had beer.

It’s interesting to note that I didn’t even realize we were in the hood until I offered to walk from the gas station to the grocery store down the street and Brett suggested it would be safer to get in the car. Apparently any place with an unlicensed portable taco stand outside is a little “sketchy.”

The “safe” place we stopped at next had bars on the window…I have a feeling I wouldn’t survive long on my own in Houston.

In any case, once properly fortified, we headed on to NASA. The first thing we did there was take a tour of the astronaut training facility…actually, the first thing we did was get in line to take a tour. A line which was moving slower than a turtle on valium because everyone had to stop and have their picture taking before going on one of the tours. According to the signs, this was for security reasons.

Which made me decide that if the only thing standing between me and a terrorist attack is a cheesy picture of Eric, Brett and I in front of an even cheesier space background, I should pack up some survival gear and head for Montana because this country is DOOMED.

Then, they sold these security photos at the end of the tour for twenty bucks apiece…wouldn’t a terrorist just BUY his photo back if he wanted to be undetected?

Anyway, it is also interesting to note that Eric had an absolute fit about the wastefulness of this yet was the first to say “Hey, aren‘t we going to buy that?” at the end of the tour.

As far as the tour itself, there were three options: Red, White, or Blue. The Red and Blue lines were insanely long and required an hour to hour and a half wait. The White tour was ready for immediate boarding.

Probably because I could have done the White tour with my parents’ Suburban and a VCR--a little fact that I pointed out six or seven times while on the white tour (of course we weren’t waiting in some hour long line, we were on VACATION!).

The White Tour would probably have been more interesting during the week when they were actually training astronauts at the astronaut training facility. As it was we got to see a bunch of empty rooms and an empty swimming pool that was forty feet deep…which, of course, inspired me to try to incite the other tour members to join in a rousing game of Marco Polo.

Sadly, I had no takers.

Nor was I allowed to see, try-out, or sneak my way into an anti-gravity chamber.

The disappointment is still overwhelming.In any case, we also tried out a space shuttle landing simulator (Eric ended up going so far off course the machine told him he was in a place no man had ever been before. This, from the man giving me airplane advice!), went to the zoo, playing cards, hung out with Brett and Rhoda and generally had a great time. However, this is getting pretty long so I will just end by saying, we had a great time, we’re glad to be back, and we’re still concerned about the security standards in the US.

Not so Neighborly

You know, I have been so caught up in the trials and tribulations of my darling students this year, I had almost forgotten the sublime joy to be found in witnessing a little redneck squabble.
Luckily, though, a fine specimen of the redneck tribe has moved into the house behind mine and, I feel confident, will be providing much entertainment in the months to come.

My first evidence of this was this morning’s comedic episode.

I was out in my backyard, putting up a special anti-squirrel birdfeeder (a trickier task than I realized when I first began) when I heard the unmistakable rumblings of an imminent brawl.
“F*** this!” The woman screamed. “F*** this, and f*** you, and give me back my f***ing Visa. I know you f***ing stole it from my f***ing purse, you hear me, you f***ing thief?”

Since I live a few doors down and I had no trouble distinguishing every beautiful word, I’m pretty sure the f***ing thief heard her loud and clear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear his reply but I’m pretty sure it was equally as insulting since about thirty seconds later, a large amount of male clothing was flung out of the back door into the yard.

Clothing that, at the time of this writing, is still decorating their pitiful excuse for a lawn.

The clothing was followed by a furious man who stomped out the door and stormed over to his car (a decidedly un-redneck looking vehicle that I made a mental note to avoid in the future.)

In any case, as the guy was storming out, the woman came skipping around from the front of the house.

Yes, skipping.

Skipping and chanting “You’re not leaving without me!” in a little girl voice that was disturbing on a lot of levels.

If you are thinking that it sounds like the woman had been perhaps been imbibing an alcoholic beverage or two, I would have to say that you are one hundred percent correct. While I am never one to judge (ha ha), I would like to point out the following things that I found disturbing:

A. It was NINE-THIRTY in the morning. I mean, seriously! Who, other than a RAGING ALCOHOLIC is so drunk at NINE-THIRTY that they skip around the yard? (I considered leaning over my fence and sharing this little tidbit but my expertise at Conflict Mediation led me to believe it might have been counter-productive.)

B. The woman outweighs me by an easy fifty pounds yet had no trouble skipping around in Daisy Duke shorts that I couldn’t have gotten on my left leg. In addition, she was wearing a tank top that would have been snug on my five-year-old niece.

For those of you who remember the horrible years that I lived in Cincinnati, let me assure you, the sight was frighteningly reminiscent of the obese alcoholic who set my apartment building on fire and had to be dragged out bare-ass naked.

Anyway, the woman continued skipping around, blocking the man’s exit, at which point he threatened to call the police.

Which, of course, started the oh-so entertaining back and forth repartee that consisted of “You can’t call the police, I’m calling the police! No, I am! No, I am!”

I considered yelling “If you don’t shut up, I’M CALLING THE POLICE, YOU RIDICULOUS REDNECKS!” but again decided it would be counter-productive. After all, I didn’t want to give the two of them a common enemy upon whom to vent their drunken rage.

As the neighborhood expert in Conflict Mediation I, of course, also considered popping over the fence and offering my services but before I could react, the drunken woman pushed the old man out of the way, flung herself in the car, and locked him out.

Ahhh, sweet victory.

I honestly have no idea how long she stayed in the car because as soon as the man started beating on the window in a rage, my ridiculous animal woke up and his finely honed guard dog skills kicked in, which caused him to start barking at the top of his tiny little lungs.
This, of course, threw both the drunks a little off. The man actually jumped a foot and began looking all around for some vicious killer dog.

At which point, I was completely overcome by a bout of hysterical laughter. And since I doubted the rednecks were in the mood to appreciate humor at their own expense, I grabbed my little mongrel and fled to the house.

So, as I said, I don’t know who finally won the Battle of the Buick. All I know for sure is that the car is gone, the clothes are still in the yard, and this is probably not the last I’ll hear from these fabulous new neighbors.

Wildlife in the Walls

Wildlife in the Walls…Part 2

While some of you have been busy mocking my pain, greeting my critter conundrum with a cacophony of catcalls and caustic comments—not to mention a plethora of pitiful pictures—others have been kind enough in express sympathy for my situation and inquire about all the ways I’ve been battling the burrowing beast.

This update is for you.

To be honest, dealing with the monster has not been easy.  Especially since I spent the weekend making one of the classic blunders.  Yes, once again I decided to do research on the Internet.  This is not something that ever turns out well.  The Internet is not, surprisingly enough, filled with stories of how the sweet cuddly raccoon inadvertently found its way into the wall and then, once it realized its mistake, wandered out again.

The Internet is filled with information like “can grow up to 30 pounds” or “distantly related to BEARS” or “vicious when cornered” or my personal favorite “common rabies-carrier.”

Then I came upon an article from August 2006 in USA Today that was titled (I swear this is true!):

Psycho Killer Raccoons Terrorize Olympia

That’s when I decided to stop researching on the Internet…largely due to the fact that it is difficult to do research on the Internet while imagining psycho killer raccoons lurking in my walls, waiting to pounce on me in my sleep and rip out my throat.

Do you get the feeling that I didn’t get an incredible amount of sleep this weekend?  Well, you’re right.  I didn’t.

Which is annoying because I usually have no trouble sleeping.  I usually sleep like a freaking baby. I sleep like the dead.  I can sleep through thunderstorms, tornado warnings, phone calls… I can even sleep through small dogs barking and whining and burying things in my bed.

But I can’t sleep through the sounds – real or imaginary—of raccoons in the walls.

And you know what else?

I don’t handle sleep deprivation well…a fact well evidenced by my recent trip to Ace Hardware to buy spackle.  See, when I was in mid search for the rotten raccoons, I noticed that there was a hole in the drywall above the fireplace.  And since this is the same wall where the raccoon first made its presence known, I thought I should close it up before it forced its way into the main part of my home (how the raccoon was going to squeeze its 30 pound body through a dime-sized hole is unclear, even to me, but that didn’t stop me from working up a pretty good panic about it).  So off I went to Ace Hardware and some spackle.

Except in my exhaustion, I couldn’t remember the word spackle.  So I went to the front checkout, said I had a hole in the wall and then started a full blown game of charades in which I acted out my version of spackling.

It was pretty impressive, let me assure you.

The clerk, oddly unimpressed, raised her eyebrows and said “Spackle?”  in that voice most people save for slow children.

“Spackle!”  I agreed.

And suddenly, inexplicably fell in love with the word spackle and began repeating it over and over.  Different tones, different inflections, even a few different accents.  In fact, I had just started rhyming it with other words—I’d really like to tackle the spackle—when the clerk said “AISLE ONE!”  like I was some sort of dangerous lunatic.

Unfazed, I went over, grabbed the spackle (so fast I could hear the wrapper crackle!) and returned to the cash register.

At this point I kind of started to realize how weird this poor woman probably thought I was and I decided to explain.  I meant to say something like “Please excuse my strange behavior but I’m really tired.  In addition, I’ve been under a great deal of strain because a wild raccoon has dug its way into my walls and is now possibly living in the attic.”

Instead, I looked the woman dead in the eye and said “I have a raccoon.”

That’s it.

Just “I have a raccoon.”

Like I had it in my purse or something….which is probably why she said “OK, then.” And practically threw my bag of spackle at me before hurrying to the other end of the store.

In any case, I went home, tackled the spackle then set about trying to convince the raccoon that my home is not a wild life refuge.

How does one do this, you might ask?  Well, I could have gotten the exterminator guy back in here with his traps but I didn’t want to do that because:

A.                 The guy actually suggested I stick my hand in a wild raccoon hole

B.                 They kill the poor thing and that messes up my karma.

C.           They charge something like $400 for 3 days of traps WHETHER THEY CATCH THE DAMN THING OR NOT.

Call me cheap, but I thought I’d see if I could handle this by myself.  So, I tried to figure out where the monster has made its home and then basically flooded the area with light and sound.  So, I have spent the past few days with every light in the house on, the patio light shining on the hole, the radio playing at full volume while I beat a broom handle on the walls and the attic door and all the vents and the hole itself.

I don’t know how the raccoon felt but I can assure you that there are a few small dogs who wish they lived somewhere else.

It is interesting to note that when I mentioned my little adventures around the raccoon hole at work this week my friend and colleague Denise F said (and this IS a direct quote):  “You should pee on it.”

Like I’m going to go outside and urinate all over the yard.  THEY ARREST PEOPLE FOR THAT, DENISE!

Anyway, in the midst of all this, I realized that unless I actually saw the raccoon leave, I would have no way of knowing for sure if I had scared the little monster off.  So in a flash of brilliance I decided to cover the hole with plastic.  If the plastic got ripped through, I would know the rotten little monster was still running in and out of the house.  If it remained intact, I'd know I was safe.  However that little chore isn't as easy as it sounds because every time I heard so much as a leaf blow across the sidewalk, I freaked out and jumped about a foot in the air, preparing to fend off a psycho killer raccoon attack.

And you know what I realized when I finished?

Nothing says class like duct tape.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that even without resorting to indecent exposure and public urination, it looks as if the beast has left.  The plastic has been undisturbed and today my handyman came over, ripped out all the old siding and insulation, and actually found the nest.

And you know what he said?  “Wow, was it big!”  Convincing me that I not only had a psycho killer raccoon living in the walls but it was some sort of mutant freak hulk sized raccoon to boot.

I’m lucky to be alive.

Anyway, the handyman is now sealing every possible crevice in the building and I should be raccoon free from this point on.