The Eldred House

Well it's that time again, time for one of my favorite (and, let’s be honest, longest) blogs of the year--the Eric/Kimberly annual vacation!

For those of you who are somewhat new to this blog I should probably mention that no, Eric is not my husband; he’s one of my best friends and we go on a short vacation together every year.

And no, my actual husband, Opie, doesn't object to me gallivanting around the country with Eric as long as we don't go someplace that he (Opie) also wants to go. Which is why some of our more memorable trips have included Psychic BootCamp, the Lizzie Borden Bed-and-Breakfast and the International UFO Conventionin Roswell New Mexico.

This year, when I told Opie we planned to go to the Eldred House in Eldred, Illinois for a haunting investigation and séance, he stared at me for a long moment (no doubt contemplating how lucky he’d been to hitch his wagon to this particular star) and finally said “Have a good time.”

However, in spite of Opie's clear apathy towards our proposed destination, the Eldred House seemed like the perfect preternatural vacation--and not just because I really like to say the word preternatural.

It was perfect because while Eric and I might not be professional ghost hunters, we consider ourselves highly qualified amateurs--the kind of amateurs who could ghost hunt in the Olympics. In fact, we're experienced enough that I feel completely comfortable sharing these 2 pieces of advice with the organizers and participants alike:

1. If you are organizing a ghost hunt and you actually want people to attend, give good directions.

I’m the first to admit that Eric and I are not exactly navigational geniuses so we expect to have a little trouble making it to abandoned houses in the middle of nowhere. However, I think anyone would be challenged by the following “Drive until you are almost to the Eldred Blacktop and turn right after the canopy of trees.”

“How am I supposed to know when I’m almost to the Eldred Blacktop?” Eric demanded.

“I don’t know—what’s a canopy of trees?” I retorted.

(Opie would like to interject that we wouldn’t have these type of directional challenges if we would have followed his advice and not only read the directions in advance but also consulted a map to confirm them. Which just goes to show you that Opie has never been on vacation with Eric and I.)

Luckily, Eldred, Illinois is not exactly a booming metropolis (211 people!) so we resorted to a grid search of the area.

And by grid search I, of course, mean drove around in crazy circles, cursing, until we found a house that we thought looked right.

We did find it within a mere 45 minutes or this would be the worst vacation blog EVER.

But this leads me to my second piece of advice:

2.If you are participating in a ghost hunt and you actually want to see ghosts, don’t be annoying.

Again, I freely admit that Eric and I can be a touch, shall we say trying?  when we’re on a ghost hunt surrounded by people who are taking things a little too seriously (aka The Waverly Hills incident)

However, we were nothing like this woman in our group at the Eldred House…a woman that I like to refer to as MICE (Most Irritating Chick EVER!).

She was annoying because

A.    She was a complete amateur.

B.    She thought she was a professional.

And most importantly

C.   She thought she was a professional because she had downloaded a ghost hunting app on her iPhone.

An app that didn’t work…How do I know the app didn't work?

Because Eric and I had downloaded the same app on our phones--but we tested it by walking around with our phones side by side to see if we got the same readings at the same time.

We are scientists, after all.

In any case, we didn't get the same readings, decided the apps were a bunch of bunk, and immediately began making friends with people who had real EMF meters. Which might seem annoying but I'm sure is 100% acceptable in the ghost hunting world.

Would MICE listen? No. She was convinced that an app that she bought for 99 cents could not only detect the presence of spirits but also hear what they whispered to each other and translate it. This was bad enough when she had the app at full volume and this creepy voice would blare from her phone shouting random words. But it got worse when her husband made her turn it off and SHE just started yelling out random words. “Blood!” she’d yell. “My phone just said blood!

Anyway, the problem with being annoying when you're a ghost hunter is that not only do the other participants start seriously considering ways to turn you into a ghost, the preternatural creatures don't want to waste their valuable energy interacting with someone who makes them glad they're non-corporeal!

They avoided MICE like the plague.

Which was too bad for her because this was easily one of the most haunted places that Eric and I have ever been. Definitely more haunted than the Lizzie Borden House and the Waverly Hills Hospital and as haunted, if not more, than the Villisca Iowa Axe MurderHouse.

And I know that some of you don't believe in ghosts, and some of you think that Eric and I are crazy, and some of you blame vodka for everything we see on our trips...but, seriously, this place was haunted.

First of all, a lot of little things happened--we could smell weird things in the sick rooms that other people couldn't smell, I kept hearing carousel music playing when the guide was talking, and we saw things in the shadows that freaked us out.

All of which could have easily been our imaginations or faked by the organizers.

But 2 things happened that we couldn't explain--and that showed how little the ghosts/spirits/demons/whatever liked MICE.

Eric and I, MICE and her husband, and this cool couple with a real EMF were all upstairs in the playroom with one of the guides. The guide was saying how this was one of the most "active" rooms, how things were always moving around and how EMF meters were always going crazy in there. They even keep this child's ball in the room so the ghosts have something to play with.

MICE had her phone app going, she kept yelling out things the ghosts were saying and taking random pictures to check for "orbs" with a flash so bight that the rest of us were blinded every time it went off. Just when I thought I was going to have to physically restrain Eric from grabbing the phone and stomping it to a pulp, MICE's husband dragged her from the room. 

The cool couple told us they were going to take their EMF meter down to the basement--far from MICE-- and did we want to come along? But we decided to stay behind in the playroom and explore a little more. Once we were alone, Eric went over to the ball and gave it a little push. It started to roll toward the window, stopped abruptly, then rolled back, rolled around me and stopped against the side of my foot.

At which point I did what any sensible ghost hunter would do: I got my grandmother's rosary out of my pocket and put it around my neck while simultaneously praying that the ball would move again and that no evil spirits would attach themselves to us.  Or failing that, that they wouldn't attach to me and would only irritate Eric a little.

(Sorry, buddy, but it's every hunter for themselves when it comes to evil spirits.)

A few minutes later, the ball did move again. No matter where we moved in the room or where we pushed it, the ball always stopped, turned around and stopped at one of our feet.

The guide and the cool couple saw what was happening a few minutes later and came back in the room to watch. Their EMF meters went crazy, the ball moved a little...

Until MICE came back in. And then bam! Everything stopped.

Because she was so annoying that the ghosts couldn't stand her.

Which was irritating and amusing at the same time.

But the best preternatural revenge came during the séance.  First of all, it wasn't like a séance  you see on TV; we didn't hold hands while some dressed up stereotypical gypsy woman rolled her eyes back in her head and mumbled nonsense words while faking a seizure.

We did sit in a circle (to concentrate our energy in one place), put an EMF meter in the middle of the room, put a flashlight on a table in the middle of the circle while the guide tried to call the spirits.

Except she kept getting interrupted by MICE who shouted out "Cookie! My phone just said cookie!"

And, when even the guide (also fed up with the most irritating chick ever) said ""Those apps DON'T WORK." MICE kept on nattering away. "You don't understand!" she said. "My husband just went to the car to get a cookie and then my phone said cookie."

I considered saying "That's so weird because my phone said gun and guess what I just got out of the car?" but I was interrupted by Eric announcing "What I don't understand is how one person thinks they can ruin this experience for everyone!"

Which is completely out of character for him and a clear sign that the ghosts were taking over his body.

But that's not the best part of preternatural revenge.

The best part came about 20 minutes later when everyone had pretty much given up on the séance, and left the room--except for Eric and I. We were sitting in the kitchen, trying to decide if we wanted to explore the playroom again or just take off when--I swear this is true--the flashlight turned off.

No one was anywhere near it, but the flashlight turned off.

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

But I contained myself long enough to tiptoe across the room and out on the porch to get the guide's attention.

Since she was also completely fed up with MICE, she tiptoed back in without alerting any other participants and we held our own mini- séance. During which time the flashlight turned on and off a couple of more times without any of us touching it.

It is interesting to note that while supernatural entities are clearly disturbed by shouts of "Cookie!" they are not at all put off by profanity and comments about impending incontinence because Eric and I were gripping each other like small children and freaking out like nobody's business.

Particularly when 2 other people (not MICE and her husband) came back in the room, saw what was happening and immediately sat down with us, and the flashlight got even brighter. 

"Turn it the other way," the guide said.

And the flashlight went off again.

Then MICE came in to see what all the commotion was about and, sure enough, the EMF meter went dead and the flashlight never moved again.

I'm pretty sure she thought we were just messing with her--particularly when I said "Did your phone just say SUCK IT?!"

Ok, I didn't say that, at least not very loud, but she did leave in somewhat of a huff.

So, while her blog is probably an annoying rant about how other ghost hunters just don't understand her and how the Eldred House isn't haunted at all, Eric and I can safely say "Another successful investigation!" and start planning our trip for next year!

Feline Intervention

The Great Cupcake Search -- Brandy the Vet Tech's Vanilla Cupcakes with Maple Buttercream.

Well it's been a long time since I've written any blog at all, much less a cupcake review...not because I haven't been EATING cupcakes you understand but because with school starting, doggy surgery and subsequent confinement, not to mention a health issue or two of my own, I just haven't had the time.

But that was before a little thing I like to call Feline Intervention.

As some of you know, Princeton P. Kitty has heart trouble and his cardiologist is in Stillwater, OK. Which means that every few months I get to wrestle an angry cat into his carrier, strap the carrier in the car and listen to him howl with rage for almost the entire ride....until he gets himself so worked up that he vomits (or worse).

Why not let him out of the crate? Because then he spends the entire drive earnestly attempting to balance on my head in the manner of a kitty gymnast.

Which is distracting on the highway.

In any case, this is why last time I went to the cardiologist, I made the insane decision to throw caution to the winds, ignore the rather carefully plotted directions Opie had given me, and take a route that my GPS assured me would get me to Stillwater in record time.

And it should have worked beautifully, there I was zipping down the turnpike, headphones firmly shoved in my ears (yes I know that's illegal but I double dog dare any cop anywhere to give me a ticket after getting a good earful of enraged cat screams!) and  randomly shouting "it's ok, we're almost there!" In Prince's general direction.

Except I zipped right past the exit.

"It's ok!" I shouted encouragingly to Prince, "We'll just turn around at the next exit!"

Except this was a turnpike so the next exit was about five and a half miles away....a situation made infinitely worse by the fact that it was only after I found that exit, exited, turned around and headed back that I realized the original exit I'd missed only exited on the other side of the stupid turnpike. So I had to drive another 11 miles to turn around again and then drive 6 miles back to the original exit.

I will not share the amount of cursing and screaming that accompanied these revelations but I assure you it was prolific.

And, oddly, did nothing to calm an already enraged cat.

So I got to the cardiologists very late, very frustrated, and very tired of listening to the loudest cat in the known universe.

Then the receptionist ushered us into an exam room immediately (possibly because she couldn't hear the phone, the intercom, or nuclear war above Prince's howling) and our favorite technician came in to tell me that they'd let the ridiculous animal roam around the exam room for ten or fifteen minutes so he could calm down before they tried to check his blood pressure.

"Hey," she said then. "Do you want a cupcake while you wait?"

Seriously, I almost kissed her right on the mouth.

And maybe it was just the stress, but that cupcake was AMAZING.

The cake was moist and delicious but the best part was the homemade buttercream frosting drizzled with maple syrup. I could have eaten a bucket of it. I'm not a fan of the little bacon embellishment on top but that is easily forgiven with the appropriate amount of delicious frosting.

So, final verdict:

Size: Average

Price: Free -- unless you figure in the cost of a kitty EKG

 in which case it's pretty exorbitant.

Cake: Moist and delicious

Icing: Fabulous!

The kind of cupcake that almost makes you forget that you still have another hour and a half in the car with a crying cat.

Pupdate

So, as some of you know, Princess Snowflake Sassypants dislocated her kneecap and needed reconstructive surgery as well as not one but two pins to put it back in place.

It’s been a looooonnnnng week.

In any case, here's the whole story:

Wednesday morning I was in the kitchen trying to extricate myself from the obscene number of vegetables our garden has produced this summer by making a huge pot of tomato sauce. So there I was, literally up to my elbows in tomatoes, when I heard Princeton P. Kitty tear across the living room at top speed.

Followed closely by the sound of Sassy and Bubba tearing across the living room at top speed.

Followed closely by the sound of loud threats of violence and an irate, sauce-covered woman storming into the living room at a slightly slower pace.

Which is when I found Sassy lying on the floor, whimpering in pain.

As near as we can figure, she jumped off the back of the couch in the manner of Super Dog in some bizarre attempt to catch the cat.

But she’s not cut out for the doggy Olympics because she clearly didn’t stick the landing,

Anyway, in case you have never met me, I should mention that these are not situations I take with stoicism and calm. I prefer to call Opie at work, scream hysterically, and then rush to the vet’s in a panic—caring not at all that the vet’s office wasn’t officially open yet.

The rest of the morning went something like this:

7:45 Arrive at vet's office, hoping that vet has arrived early and will be able to see whimpering dog immediately.

7:50 Learn that vet has arrived early but is performing surgery and will not leave other dog on the operating table.  Pretend to be understanding but secretly consider bursting into surgery and shoving own dog into vet’s face while screaming things like “Help us, for the love of heaven, help us!”

7:51 Agree with vet tech that heading to emergency vet is best option. Jump back in car and start hysterical journey across town.

7:55 scream profanity at idiot woman on cellphone who careened across 2 lanes of traffic, nearly smashing into own car.

7:56 become idiot woman on cellphone as attempt to call family and friends to shriek about dog and other idiot driver.

7:57 realize that in dramatic exit from home, left tomato sauce boiling on the stove. Have horrified vision of losing other two pets, not to mention entire house, in a sauce explosion.

7:58 Try to say every curse word have ever heard, pull up in front of house, slam car into park and begin running across dew-soaked lawn at top speed. Nearly dislocate own knee in process as flip-flops, water, and running are a poor combination. Kick off shoes, finish run in bare feet. Turn off sauce, fly back to car, jump back out to grab shoes, and drive to emergency clinic like a maniac.

8:10 Get to emergency vet…which is only a problem because, as I’ve said before, it sometimes takes new people awhile to really appreciate the mysterious ball of emotions that is Kimberly. The emergency vet was DEFINITELY one of those people. Our conversation went a little like this:

                                Vet: Unfortunately, her knee is completely dislocated. If you feel right here—

                                Me: I don’t want to feel it.

                                Vet: But you’ll be able to feel how far out of position—

                                Me: I believe you; I don’t need to feel it.

                                Vet: I just want you to see that it’s completely—

                                Me: Seriously, I’m about to vomit.

And, fortunately for everyone involved, he believed me and stopped trying to convince me that I should immerse myself in some sort of sick doggy torture and began to explain that the knee would need surgical repair. I agreed, he said I should make an appointment to get that done in the next few days, and then he made the fatal mistake of acting as if that was all.

Me: So, she’ll get surgery in a couple of days but what about TODAY? What are we going to do TODAY?

                                Vet: We can’t fix it today; it’s so far out of position—

Me: So, we’re just going to do NOTHING? We’re going to let this poor little dog sit around in EXCRUCIATING PAIN for the next two days? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK WE’RE GOING TO DO?

I don’t know if that’s originally what he thought, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t think so once I started yelling and waving my arms in the air.

It’s probably a bit of a miracle that he didn’t try to sedate both of us.

And I have to say, Opie was quite the trooper throughout all this because when I pretended to be a reasonable person and asked “Do we need to talk about how much we’re willing to pay to get this fixed? Do we have a number we won’t go above?” He just rolled his eyes and said, “I don’t know do WE?” and then added “You know you’re going to do it no matter what, so why even debate it?”

The man is wise beyond his years.

So, this knee has been completely reconstructed, the other knee might need surgery in the future, and Sassy has been sentenced to 6-8 weeks of puppy prison.

6-8 weeks of no running, playing, jumping or climbing the stairs....I feel doggy drama, drama, drama coming on.

Separation Anxiety?

I'm no psychic but I suspect that Sassy didn't appreciate being left at home alone while the guys were out back taking down the tree.

I'd like to report that she felt really bad about her behavior but if you look closely you can see her there in the back still happily chewing away on a plant.

Conversations With Kimbo

This is the kind of conversation you get to have when you are married to and traveling with me.

Me "I need you to finish packing."

Opie, slightly confused, "You know that you haven't finished packing, right? Your stuff's all over the spare room."

Me "Of course I know, I'm not a moron."

Opie  "Then why do I have to finish packing right now?"

Sometimes it's like he's meeting me for the first time.

Me "YOU have to finish packing now because we both know I won't finish until tomorrow morning. And I'll probably have other stuff I need to get done before we leave and I'm sure I'll be freaking out and I need you to be prepared to help me. 

"And," I continued before he could try to foolishly force logic into the conversation,"don't tell me it would make more sense for me to finish packing now. If I do that, tomorrow morning I'll start thinking that I forgot to put something in the suitcase and then I'll have to start over! Can't you just let me freak out in peace? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!"

How I remained single for so many years is a mystery for the ages.

In any case, Opie did go ahead and pack (though I think I heard some muttered suggestions about how I should just make a list of things to pack and check them off or some other ridiculous nonsense), he is ready to help me tomorrow and I think our vacation is going to get off to a brilliant start.

Happy Birthday?

Last night I found mouse droppings in the cabinet.

This is, of course, disgusting.

However, this is rural Oklahoma and we do tend to get one or two of the horrifying, vermin-ridden creatures when the weather turns warm.

What really bothers me is the fact that we have a CAT for the love of heaven, not to mention 2 dogs. And although Sassypants isn’t much of a hunter, Bubba is a serial squirderer AND a birderer.  Why, why WHY am I the one who has to find and deal with a mouse in the house?

And by “deal with” I obviously mean scream at Opie to do something.

The long and the short of it is, we pulled everything out of the cabinet and set traps before we went to bed last night.

On a slightly related note, I’m curious if anyone in the history of mankind has ever caught a mouse in one of the humane, catch and release, cost about 10 times more than the snap trap type traps? Every single time we have had a mouse, I have put those things out loaded to the gills with peanut butter, and every single time the mouse has chosen to run over the snap trap instead.

The mice are clearly suicidal.

In any case, the point of this whole drama is that today is Opie’s birthday and he took the day off work. And, it is interesting to note, starting your morning listening to your wife scream about dead mice in the cabinets and then being forced to remove the mouse carcass amid more shrieking before you are allowed any coffee is, apparently, NOT a good start to your birthday celebrations.

Though he seems happy enough now....hmmmm...wondering if he spiked his coffee when my back was turned….

Mouse? What mouse? I don't see no stinkin' mouse in here.

Saint Kimbo I Am Not

You know when I first realized that sainthood might not be for me?

Second grade.

I was sitting in religion class, listening to my teacher--who was, quite possibly, the scariest woman ever--talk about the joys of the stigmata and the saints who had experienced it.

And I summoned all the courage of my second grade self and asked "So, they're bleeding all the time? Isn't that..." and I didn't say "gross" but I think everyone knew where I was going.

"The blood is perfumed with the odor of sanctity!" My teacher told me.

I'm sure I nodded like that was really profound--after all, she was the scariest woman ever--but in my head I was thinking "Yeah, that's still gross."

And I figured my chances of sainthood we're pretty well shot.

I'm older now and I do have a better understanding of the stigmata and true piety and a variety of other religious issues but I decided last Sunday at mass that sainthood is probably still out of reach.

Largely because I spent most of mass having an inner debate on which of the following people were irritating me more:

The woman in front of me who was chewing gum for the entire service.

The older people behind me who thought they were whispering but were, in fact, sharing their thoughts with the whole church...and kept giggling about the fact that they were more poorly behaved than half the children.

The old guy right behind me who, in spite of the fact that the entire rest of his and my pews were both empty, decided he needed to hang his cane directly on the back of my pew so I couldn't sit down without it digging into my spine.

Unless there's a dire need for a patron saint of "I try not to judge but I'm seriously considering beating you to death." I think I'm out of luck.