All right, here it is, the event you’ve been waiting for all summer (not too convinced of my own importance, am I?): The Haugh Hadley Annual Vacation!
Let me start by addressing the 2nd most common question I’ve gotten about the trip (The 1st most common question, in case you’re wondering, is a tie between “Are you serious?” and “What’s the matter with you people?” But I get those questions every year and have learned to ignore them). The 2nd most common question this year is “Aren’t you dating someone? How does he feel about you and Eric gallivanting about the country?”
No, all of you don’t say “gallivanting” but it’s an awesome word and it’s what you all mean.
In any case, never fear, people, I didn’t just gallivant away without checking first. After all, hypocritical jealous creature that I am, I’m pretty sure I would be annoyed if he told me he was spending the weekend in a bed and breakfast with someone else.
And by annoyed I, of course, mean insane with rage.
So, months ago, I asked him if he cared.
And he said “Well, if you guys are going somewhere I really want us to experience together, someplace I want to take you, that would bother me.”
(Clearly, I failed to properly explain the exact nature of this trip).
“So,” he went on. “Where are you going?”
“Ghost Hunter University at the Lizzie Borden House,” I replied.
What followed was a long silence that I like to call a “dramatic pause” but might have been him reflecting on my sanity, his hearing, the future of our relationship and/or any combination of the three.
“Have a good time,” he finally managed.
And we were off!
So, for those of you who may not know the story, let me give you a brief rundown of Lizzie Borden. Back in 1892, Lizzie Borden lived in Fall River, Massachusetts with her sister, step-mother, and father. Lizzie did NOT get along with her step mother and her father was rumored to be abusive. However, times being what they were and American society being misogynistic and oppressive, Lizzie was forced to live there, even as an adult.
One day, while Lizzie was one of the only people home, someone bludgeoned her stepmother to death with an ax. Almost 2 hours later, her father came home for lunch and he was beaten to death as well. Lizzie was put on trial for the 2 murders but was acquitted, probably because no one could believe a WOMAN who taught Sunday School could be a killer (these are people who never met my second grade teacher…religion teacher or not, she’d kill ya’ as soon as look at ya!). Even today there is a divide between people who think Lizzie knew what was happening but didn’t wield the ax (Eric Hadley) and people who think Lizzie was a psycho and swung the ax with reckless abandon (Kimberly Haugh).
A few people believe she was completely innocent (the same people who think Elvis, Jim Morrison, and Tupac faked their deaths and are all working at a 7-11 in Arizona somewhere).
Anyway, the house in which these murders took place is now a bed and breakfast that has been put back in as much of its original state as possible—with the aid of actual CRIME SCENE PHOTOS!!! And is reputed to be one of the most haunted places in America. It has, in fact, been featured on the Travel Channel’s Most Haunted Destinations.
And you can actually RENT OUT THE ROOM IN WHICH MRS. BORDEN WAS MURDERED AND SLEEP THERE JUST WAITING FOR THE GHOSTS TO ARRIVE!!!
Which brings me to the big disappointment of the trip. Oddly, the Ghost Hunters at Ghost Hunter University didn’t get enough participants to sign up and, at the last minute, it was canceled!
And, to be honest, the house wasn’t NEARLY as scary as that old farmhouse in Villisca, Iowa that we went to a few years ago…
Don’t get me wrong, it was a great trip...and the house had its creepy moments…like when I realized I was camped out on the floor INCHES from the spot where Mrs. Borden’s blood had soaked into the floorboards. Or when Eric woke up in the middle of the night, sure he was hearing odd noises and people moving around.
But here is a list of all the things that were scarier than the house itself, in order of occurrence:
1. Eric and my complete inability to start a trip without something going wrong…since we were flying this year we couldn’t really get lost. And I even managed to get in my car and head for his house COMPLETELY ON TIME.
A fact which seemed much less impressive when I called Eric to brag and couldn’t get through…because he was in his car, calling my phone to brag about the same thing.
2. The 1 star, $30 hotel room we stayed at on the nights we didn’t stay at the Lizzie Borden house. That’s $30 TOTAL, by the way, not $30 apiece. And I think the overall quality of the place was pretty well summed up in the first few minutes of our stay. We checked in, got on the elevator that hadn’t been cleaned in a week or more, and this young guy got on right after us. Ever the friendly sort, I wanted to say something kind and appreciative about the prison tattoos covering his arms, neck, and part of one cheek but we got to his floor before I could decide between “Nice ink” and “How was the big house?” Thus, I had to settle for smiling sweetly at Eric and announcing “We’re going to die.”
3. The neighborhood the Lizzie Borden house was in…a little place I fondly remember as Murderville. See, Eric and I got to the house a little before check in, dropped off our bags and decided to explore the area—foolishly assuming that a little place like Fall River, Massachusetts would be brimming with New England-style hospitality and not be a den of poverty and criminals.
Equally alarming, to be honest, was the difference in the amount of time it took Eric and I to notice our surroundings. Our conversation went a little something like this:
Eric: Look at that architecture!
Me: Look at the gang graffiti and boarded up windows.
Eric: I wonder if they have high property taxes here?
Me: I wonder if we’re going to be mugged for our shoes?
Eric: Do you see the potential these buildings have?
Me: Do you see the crowd of poorly dressed youths, standing in a circle and smelling like dope??!!! Do you? DO YOU?? DO YOU WANT US TO DIE, YOU IDIOT??!!
It is further interesting to note that, right after this little exchange, instead of being mugged for our shoes, Eric and I managed to accidentally steal twenty dollars from this drugged out former felon shuffling around buying lottery tickets.
4. Eric and my steadfast belief that—in spite of all evidence to the contrary—we are navigational geniuses—a misconception worsened by the GPS feature on my phone. After our sojourn through Murderville, we began on a FIVE MILE trek through the rest of the town to find the cemetery where the Borden family was buried. And, once there, started our famous grid search for the graves (And by grid search I, of course, mean wandering around in circles while complaining about our lack of booze).
Yet, to our shocked but happy surprise, we came across a Borden family plot five minutes into the search.
Which led to much dancing and rejoicing…until we realized that Borden is an uncommonly common name in good old Fall River…there were about 15 different Borden family plots in that cemetery…and I’m pretty sure we saw every one before locating Lizzie.
Even creepier was that, even though the entire family is buried there, INCLUDING THE MURDER VICTIMS, the only grave that was clearly tended and had flowers planted was Lizzie’s…which means some person out there, weirder even than Eric and I, is making sure a murderess’ grave is tidy.
Kind of glad we didn’t run into them…
5. The fact that the Lizzie Borden house FORBIDS ALCOHOL…which would have made less resourceful people wander around the place moaning “Why God, why?!!” But we only had to spend a few moments in that kind of panic because of two very important things:
a. We remembered the presence of a little liquor store right on the edge of Murderville.
b. We had a backpack that could EASILY hold a illicit bottle of vodka or two.
Unfortunately, after RISKING OUR LIVES and heading back to the outskirts of Murderville, we discovered that the store called Annie’s Liquors doesn’t actually sell liquor…wine and beer, yes. Vodka, no. In fact, when I asked the clerk where the vodka was, she looked at me like I was the crazy one. “We don’t carry LIQUOR.” She said in this confused tone.
To be honest, she was just lucky they had merlot in stock and I had a ghost tour to attend.
6. The moments in which we thought maybe the former felon we had inadvertently taken for twenty bucks had followed us back to the house and was planning retaliation…exacerbated by the fact that the yelling we could hear outside was in rapid, angry Spanish and therefore, incomprehensible.
Fortified by merlot, I suggested that Eric open the window and scream “Callate, hijo de puta!” and other such profanity (Mrs. Finnegan, my high school Spanish teacher would be bursting with pride about now) but he wouldn’t.
7. The deliberate placement of mannequins and weird looking cats in the corner of every room in the Lzzie Borden House…clearly designed to make you look twice and think you see ghosts in every corner…particularly if you have been hiding out in the Murder Room, slamming merlot moments before the tour.
The deliberate placement of a Ouija Board in the sitting room was a little unnerving but—in spite of the tour guide’s urging—even Eric and I aren’t crazy enough to call up spirits in a haunted house.
8. And finally, the fact that ten years later, Eric STILL has not managed to find an acceptable storage place for his underwear.
Some of you may remember our first trip, way back in 2000, when we went to a wedding in South Carolina. After the reception, many an adventure and many a vodka, Eric decided to invite the wedding party back to our hotel room…in spite of the fact that his dirty underwear and other clothes were strewn about the room willy nilly.
This year, when the tour of the Borden House included a visit to the murder room in which we were staying, Eric’s underwear was once again on prominent display…although at least this year they were clean.
What in the world will the next ten years bring? It’s hard to imagine….
Monday, August 23, 2010
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Vacation 2009...Voodoo, Vampires, and Vodka
Ok, it’s that time of year again…the Haugh/Hadley annual sojourn to silly destinations and questionable activities. And where did this trip take us?
New Orleans, Louisiana.
Now, I can actually hear some of your shocked gasps…New Orleans, you are saying, a place of culture and cuisine, of good music and history…what in the world are Eric and Kimberly doing going somewhere so, well, normal?
Others of you, who have been there for Mardi Gras and other events, are thinking that we decided against our usual bizarre vacation and went to New Orleans to party.
And I’ll be honest, there were a few moments that could be described as drunk and surly, I did encourage Eric to beg for spare change on the street corners, and people back home stopped accepting our calls…
But that was not the main goal of our vacation!
See, what you people have forgotten (or never knew) is that New Orleans is also the home of American voodoo, that it is reputedly the most psychically charged city in America, not to mention the most haunted.
And it’s the only place I know that offers PSYCHIC BOOT CAMP….yes, that’s right a training ground to test and train potential psychics….
But I get ahead of myself!
The trip began early Monday morning and as always, it seemed half our trouble rested not in the location itself but in getting to the location…a task that should have been made simpler by the fact that Eric and I made the rare decision to fly instead of drive.
However we forgot to check in with the airline the night before…which meant that in spite of the fact that the plane we were in was the size of a shoebox, Eric and my seats were NOT next to each other.
And if you think that was upsetting for US, imagine the poor passengers in the seats between and around us as we continued chattering back and forth as if there were no impediment…particularly when Eric began a long and disturbingly detailed discussion of his underwear.
Though, to be fair, Eric felt it was probably MORE disconcerting to the other passengers when the pilot said “If you’re wondering why the mechanic was on board the plane it was because the motor wasn’t working. We think it’s fine now.” And I began moaning out loud and predicting our fiery deaths.
However, against all odds, we made it to New Orleans relatively intact.
So, our first afternoon/evening was supposed to be all about reconnaissance. I mean, we had to find the Voodoo Museum, the Voodoo Cultural Center, Madame Laveau’s Voodoo Shop, and the Boutique du Vampyre (the only vampire shop in the US!).
Which, by the way, was the biggest disappointment of the whole trip.
We didn’t even make it inside until the 3rd day because it was closed every time we went by…closed but with tantalizing little signs on the door that said “Be right back” or “Back in ten minutes” or “Back at 1:30” which indicated that someone had, at least, been in the store long enough to change signs.
And then, when we did finally make it inside, it was the lamest display of vampire merchandise I have ever seen…I’m not even sure why it was considered a VAMPIRE store since it seemed to focus much more on homemade scented candles…although, to be fair, the woman did offer us a press on tattoo of bite marks we could put on our necks.
Weird.
However, as I said, we didn’t even discover that until later…because of their bizarre hours but also because, in our first ten minutes of recon, we found this little bar that made the strongest yet cheapest vodka and lemonade I have ever had the good fortune to consume. Which means we were, of course, ready to throw off any semblance of voodoo searching and settle in for the evening…until we realized that strong drinks are only made available to the FEMALE patrons of the bar.
Eric didn’t qualify.
Apparently his vodka and lemonade actually had lemonade in it…odd.
Since we are committed to fighting discrimination in any form, we decided to press on…though not until I got the bartender to mix me a new drink for the road.
And it was thus filled with righteous indignation, we marched down the streets of New Orleans and found ourselves a gay bar…where several of the patrons—in the spirit of unity among all people—bought ME drinks while letting Eric fend for himself.
New Orleans, in my opinion, is one of the friendliest places on earth.
Eric did NOT concur.
The long and the short of it is, we kind of forgot about recon for the rest of the night.
Day Two we were a little more focused…in fact, we decided to completely eschew alcohol until we had completed our psychic missions…and, to get ourselves in the mood, we meandered through every Voodoo shop we could find, where they actually sold things like “eye of newt” and voodoo dolls and magic candles…all the while assuring us that voodoo is a “life affirming practice that encourages its participants to better understand the natural processes of life and their own spiritual natures.” It actually has bizarre ties to Catholicism and has all these correlations between Voodoo spirits and our saints.
I’m not going to lie, some of the altars creeped me out.
Hoodoo, on the other hand, is all about magic spells and curses and the like. Those spirits are also supposed to be tied to Christian ideas but correspond with demons and devils.
Which also creeped me out.
However, it was armed with this knowledge that we marched ourselves to Madame Laveau’s Voodoo shop and got our palms read and our fortunes told.
And I won’t bore you with everything she predicted (though I did write it all down in my journal for future reference) but I will tell you that she said she could tell I’m a little bit psychic, a “sender.” This means I can send my thoughts to others and force them to think of me, etc.
Which I thought was perfect, since our next spot was Psychic Boot Camp.
Eric was hesitant to participate at first…not because he didn’t want to go but because he was a touch worried about my inherently competitive nature. While I am not considered competitive by my family’s standards (My dad used to beat us at CANDYLAND? And don’t even get me started on Hungry, Hungry Hippos, that experience is a blog entry of its own!), I’m still just about twice as competitive as the normal person.
Which makes me approximately six times as competitive as Eric.
And in a psychic flash, he had some vision of me cackling like a loon and chanting “I’m more psychic than you are!”
But after I vowed not to do such a thing (at least not OUT LOUD)., we made reservations and off we went.
And it was AMAZING!
Apparently, there are about 17 different types of psychic ability and all people have some sort of gift.
With this in mind the expert, noted parapsychologist Dr. Larry Montz, taught us how to “ground ourselves” to become more in touch with our psychic natures, he told us about the difference between being an empath (a person who can feel psychic vibrations) a medium (a person who can communicate with spirits) and a channeler (a person who can let the spirits enter their psychic space).
Then he showed us he showed us how to focus our energy and “zap” other people to get their attention…
How many of you are worried that I’m going to spend a disproportionate amount of time in the next few weeks running around yelling “ZAP!” and poking people in the back of the head?
But I digress…
He also tested us on our telepathic abilities by looking at these things called Zener cards and seeing if we could determine which one he was looking at.
Eric did amazing! He got about 1/3 to ½ of the cards right, which even impressed Dr. Montz.
I, on the other hand, sucked out loud…I didn’t even get ONE card right. Not because I’m LESS psychic, you understand but because I’m a SENDER not a RECEIVER, just ask the voodoo priestess (Competitive? Me? Don’t be ridiculous!)
Finally, they took us on a tour of all the haunted areas in the French Quarter, led us into dark rooms and the like and asked us for our psychic impressions of the places.
This, of course, led to a lot of giggling, a few incidences of me attempting to “zap” Eric, and a shocking amount of very bad guesses.
However, pardon me for sounding like some sort of hippie dippy freak, but there were 2 places that had such bad energy I about ran out screaming. In the first place, I actually started to cry and talk about how much I wanted/needed my mom…which is when Dr. Montz told us that the building had been an orphanage.
The second place, I just got really scared and refused to even stand near the entryway. That place, we found out later, was where this freaky doctor had performed a bunch of horrible medical experiments on different people.
In any case, we were suitably and deliciously freaked out by the whole thing…which makes this vacation an overwhelming success! And a suitable training ground for next year’s trip to the Lizzie Borden Weekend Paranormal Retreat!
If you want to see pictures of the trip, here they are:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=82018&id=514684060&saved#/album.php?aid=82018&id=514684060
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New Orleans, Louisiana.
Now, I can actually hear some of your shocked gasps…New Orleans, you are saying, a place of culture and cuisine, of good music and history…what in the world are Eric and Kimberly doing going somewhere so, well, normal?
Others of you, who have been there for Mardi Gras and other events, are thinking that we decided against our usual bizarre vacation and went to New Orleans to party.
And I’ll be honest, there were a few moments that could be described as drunk and surly, I did encourage Eric to beg for spare change on the street corners, and people back home stopped accepting our calls…
But that was not the main goal of our vacation!
See, what you people have forgotten (or never knew) is that New Orleans is also the home of American voodoo, that it is reputedly the most psychically charged city in America, not to mention the most haunted.
And it’s the only place I know that offers PSYCHIC BOOT CAMP….yes, that’s right a training ground to test and train potential psychics….
But I get ahead of myself!
The trip began early Monday morning and as always, it seemed half our trouble rested not in the location itself but in getting to the location…a task that should have been made simpler by the fact that Eric and I made the rare decision to fly instead of drive.
However we forgot to check in with the airline the night before…which meant that in spite of the fact that the plane we were in was the size of a shoebox, Eric and my seats were NOT next to each other.
And if you think that was upsetting for US, imagine the poor passengers in the seats between and around us as we continued chattering back and forth as if there were no impediment…particularly when Eric began a long and disturbingly detailed discussion of his underwear.
Though, to be fair, Eric felt it was probably MORE disconcerting to the other passengers when the pilot said “If you’re wondering why the mechanic was on board the plane it was because the motor wasn’t working. We think it’s fine now.” And I began moaning out loud and predicting our fiery deaths.
However, against all odds, we made it to New Orleans relatively intact.
So, our first afternoon/evening was supposed to be all about reconnaissance. I mean, we had to find the Voodoo Museum, the Voodoo Cultural Center, Madame Laveau’s Voodoo Shop, and the Boutique du Vampyre (the only vampire shop in the US!).
Which, by the way, was the biggest disappointment of the whole trip.
We didn’t even make it inside until the 3rd day because it was closed every time we went by…closed but with tantalizing little signs on the door that said “Be right back” or “Back in ten minutes” or “Back at 1:30” which indicated that someone had, at least, been in the store long enough to change signs.
And then, when we did finally make it inside, it was the lamest display of vampire merchandise I have ever seen…I’m not even sure why it was considered a VAMPIRE store since it seemed to focus much more on homemade scented candles…although, to be fair, the woman did offer us a press on tattoo of bite marks we could put on our necks.
Weird.
However, as I said, we didn’t even discover that until later…because of their bizarre hours but also because, in our first ten minutes of recon, we found this little bar that made the strongest yet cheapest vodka and lemonade I have ever had the good fortune to consume. Which means we were, of course, ready to throw off any semblance of voodoo searching and settle in for the evening…until we realized that strong drinks are only made available to the FEMALE patrons of the bar.
Eric didn’t qualify.
Apparently his vodka and lemonade actually had lemonade in it…odd.
Since we are committed to fighting discrimination in any form, we decided to press on…though not until I got the bartender to mix me a new drink for the road.
And it was thus filled with righteous indignation, we marched down the streets of New Orleans and found ourselves a gay bar…where several of the patrons—in the spirit of unity among all people—bought ME drinks while letting Eric fend for himself.
New Orleans, in my opinion, is one of the friendliest places on earth.
Eric did NOT concur.
The long and the short of it is, we kind of forgot about recon for the rest of the night.
Day Two we were a little more focused…in fact, we decided to completely eschew alcohol until we had completed our psychic missions…and, to get ourselves in the mood, we meandered through every Voodoo shop we could find, where they actually sold things like “eye of newt” and voodoo dolls and magic candles…all the while assuring us that voodoo is a “life affirming practice that encourages its participants to better understand the natural processes of life and their own spiritual natures.” It actually has bizarre ties to Catholicism and has all these correlations between Voodoo spirits and our saints.
I’m not going to lie, some of the altars creeped me out.
Hoodoo, on the other hand, is all about magic spells and curses and the like. Those spirits are also supposed to be tied to Christian ideas but correspond with demons and devils.
Which also creeped me out.
However, it was armed with this knowledge that we marched ourselves to Madame Laveau’s Voodoo shop and got our palms read and our fortunes told.
And I won’t bore you with everything she predicted (though I did write it all down in my journal for future reference) but I will tell you that she said she could tell I’m a little bit psychic, a “sender.” This means I can send my thoughts to others and force them to think of me, etc.
Which I thought was perfect, since our next spot was Psychic Boot Camp.
Eric was hesitant to participate at first…not because he didn’t want to go but because he was a touch worried about my inherently competitive nature. While I am not considered competitive by my family’s standards (My dad used to beat us at CANDYLAND? And don’t even get me started on Hungry, Hungry Hippos, that experience is a blog entry of its own!), I’m still just about twice as competitive as the normal person.
Which makes me approximately six times as competitive as Eric.
And in a psychic flash, he had some vision of me cackling like a loon and chanting “I’m more psychic than you are!”
But after I vowed not to do such a thing (at least not OUT LOUD)., we made reservations and off we went.
And it was AMAZING!
Apparently, there are about 17 different types of psychic ability and all people have some sort of gift.
With this in mind the expert, noted parapsychologist Dr. Larry Montz, taught us how to “ground ourselves” to become more in touch with our psychic natures, he told us about the difference between being an empath (a person who can feel psychic vibrations) a medium (a person who can communicate with spirits) and a channeler (a person who can let the spirits enter their psychic space).
Then he showed us he showed us how to focus our energy and “zap” other people to get their attention…
How many of you are worried that I’m going to spend a disproportionate amount of time in the next few weeks running around yelling “ZAP!” and poking people in the back of the head?
But I digress…
He also tested us on our telepathic abilities by looking at these things called Zener cards and seeing if we could determine which one he was looking at.
Eric did amazing! He got about 1/3 to ½ of the cards right, which even impressed Dr. Montz.
I, on the other hand, sucked out loud…I didn’t even get ONE card right. Not because I’m LESS psychic, you understand but because I’m a SENDER not a RECEIVER, just ask the voodoo priestess (Competitive? Me? Don’t be ridiculous!)
Finally, they took us on a tour of all the haunted areas in the French Quarter, led us into dark rooms and the like and asked us for our psychic impressions of the places.
This, of course, led to a lot of giggling, a few incidences of me attempting to “zap” Eric, and a shocking amount of very bad guesses.
However, pardon me for sounding like some sort of hippie dippy freak, but there were 2 places that had such bad energy I about ran out screaming. In the first place, I actually started to cry and talk about how much I wanted/needed my mom…which is when Dr. Montz told us that the building had been an orphanage.
The second place, I just got really scared and refused to even stand near the entryway. That place, we found out later, was where this freaky doctor had performed a bunch of horrible medical experiments on different people.
In any case, we were suitably and deliciously freaked out by the whole thing…which makes this vacation an overwhelming success! And a suitable training ground for next year’s trip to the Lizzie Borden Weekend Paranormal Retreat!
If you want to see pictures of the trip, here they are:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=82018&id=514684060&saved#/album.php?aid=82018&id=514684060
</Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Why are all my pets crazy?
Ok, so I read an article recently that said that cat owners live longer because cats help people de-stress.
Who thinks this applies to MY cat?
On the other hand, who thinks that Prince the cat (hereafter referred to as Ridiculous Animal #3) has merely added his own brand of insanity to the Haugh household?
If you voted for the former, you are sadly out of touch with the shenanigans and brouhaha that rule my life.
You see, last night I, apparently, fell asleep with the lights on. Some people can not do this. I, on the other hand, can sleep through almost anything so had no trouble falling and staying asleep in a brightly lit room.
You know what I can’t sleep through?
A four pound kitten using my tummy as a trampoline.
Which is what Ridiculous Animal #3 did this morning at about twenty to FOUR. He ran, jumped on the crate he and Peek-A-Boo (Ridiculous Animal #1) use to get in the bed, flew onto my stomach and launched himself in the air in the manner of a super cat (I am considering buying him a cape and some tights).
At first I was angry…see, I foolishly assumed he was just playing. I didn’t realize he was DEFENDING MY LIFE. Which is why the rest of my morning went a little something like this:
4:43 AM Sit up and yell “What the f*** are you doing?”
4:44-4:45 Continue to yell at Ridiculous Animal #3 that is jumping in and out of bed at speed of light, completely ignoring any and all questions.
4:46 Scream at Ridiculous Animal #1 who has been ripped from sleep by all the racket and, instead of helping situation, decides to add to cacophony by barking at top of tiny little lungs.
4:47- 4:53 Make futile attempts to catch Ridiculous Animal #3 and stop its flying foibles.
4:54 Come to sad realization that tiny, fast, and apparently boneless kitten is Ninja in disguise and therefore much more difficult to catch than overfed, lazy dogs. Flop back down on bed in exhaustion.
4:55 See cat preparing self for new leap. Use scariest voice to warn kitty against foolish course of action.
4:56 Follow kitten’s line of sight to black spot on the wall.
4:57Yell bad words at full volume when realize black spot is SPIDER roughly the size of a human head.
4:58 – 5:00 Kitten takes advantage of distraction to fly back into bed, launch self off stomach toward wall, paws flailing wildly in attempt to swat spider.
5:01 Launch self out of bed onto floor as realize that kitten has knocked spider off wall and POSSIBLY INTO BED.
5:02 Contemplate the sweet release of death as the following 3 things occur simultaneously: 1. Ridiculous Animal #3 begins batting spider around bed as if has found best toy ever. 2. Ridiculous Animal #1 scrambles into bed (using ME as step stool) to join in the spider swatting shenanigans. 3. Ridiculous Animal #2 wakes up decides that this CLEARLY rates as THE SCARIEST SITUATION EVER and begins barking to alert whole house—and possibly whole neighborhood—to situation.
5:03-5:05 Waste precious minutes deciding which animal to attend to (by which I mean MURDER) first.
5:06 Watch in horror as cat stops batting spider across sheets and EATS IT!!
5:07 – 5:08 Grab cat and shake like rag doll, attempting to retrieve enormous and obviously poisonous spider before can kill cat.
5:09-5:11 Yell bad words, nurse wounds, and make immediate mental note to declaw cat ASAP.
5:12 – 5:35 Remember do actually love cat and do not want it poisoned so race for computer and make COLLOSSAL MISTAKE of researching cats eating spiders on internet…why , why, WHY do I keep doing this to myself? When am I going to learn that the internet only serves to freak me out more???? Especially since, in my ADD induced search I got immediately distracted by pictures of the alleged CAMEL SPIDER supposedly found in Iraq that grows to the size of a dinner plate, lays its eggs in camels’ stomachs, where the babies eventually EAT THEIR WAY OUT. In fact, a recent report stated that they are very dangerous to humans, stating that:
When a Camel Spider bites, it injects you with a Novocain type
drug that instantly "numbs" your skin and the surrounding tissue.
You can't even tell you've been bitten while you're sleeping. When you wake up, you find part of your leg or arm severely chewed because
the Camel Spider has been gnawing on it ... all night long!
And these monsters are slowly being introduced to America as they sneak back in the luggage and equipment of our troops. Which is the only thing slow about them because the camel spider can run 25 mph, will chase people around, SCREAMING all the while…
Can you imagine if my poor little kitty had tried to fight this creature:
http://images.whatsthatbug.com/images/camel_spider_sandoval.jpg
Because I occasionally overreact, it took me about 10 seconds to remember that there had been a guy returning from Iraq on my plane home from Florida, to wonder if his luggage had been anywhere near mine, and start imagine the camel spider lurking in my closet, waiting to pounce.
Luckily, it only took me about 10 minutes of freaking out to remember that sometimes the Internet contains information that is a tiny bit exaggerated.
Yah, this was one of those times.
Snopes.com assures me that the majority of the details reported above are completely false…especially the part about them coming to America .
So I was going to start researching the effects of spider ingestion on a tiny little cat but, to be honest, the issue seemed a bit moot (or moo, if you’re a Friends fan) since the animal in question was busy attempting to balance itself on my HEAD during the entire Camel Spider drama and clearly was suffering no ill effects at all.
So now I don’t know if I should be happy I have a spider slayer or worried about its choice of toy…in either case, I would like to repeat that this animal has NOT brought peace and quiet to my home.
Who thinks this applies to MY cat?
On the other hand, who thinks that Prince the cat (hereafter referred to as Ridiculous Animal #3) has merely added his own brand of insanity to the Haugh household?
If you voted for the former, you are sadly out of touch with the shenanigans and brouhaha that rule my life.
You see, last night I, apparently, fell asleep with the lights on. Some people can not do this. I, on the other hand, can sleep through almost anything so had no trouble falling and staying asleep in a brightly lit room.
You know what I can’t sleep through?
A four pound kitten using my tummy as a trampoline.
Which is what Ridiculous Animal #3 did this morning at about twenty to FOUR. He ran, jumped on the crate he and Peek-A-Boo (Ridiculous Animal #1) use to get in the bed, flew onto my stomach and launched himself in the air in the manner of a super cat (I am considering buying him a cape and some tights).
At first I was angry…see, I foolishly assumed he was just playing. I didn’t realize he was DEFENDING MY LIFE. Which is why the rest of my morning went a little something like this:
4:43 AM Sit up and yell “What the f*** are you doing?”
4:44-4:45 Continue to yell at Ridiculous Animal #3 that is jumping in and out of bed at speed of light, completely ignoring any and all questions.
4:46 Scream at Ridiculous Animal #1 who has been ripped from sleep by all the racket and, instead of helping situation, decides to add to cacophony by barking at top of tiny little lungs.
4:47- 4:53 Make futile attempts to catch Ridiculous Animal #3 and stop its flying foibles.
4:54 Come to sad realization that tiny, fast, and apparently boneless kitten is Ninja in disguise and therefore much more difficult to catch than overfed, lazy dogs. Flop back down on bed in exhaustion.
4:55 See cat preparing self for new leap. Use scariest voice to warn kitty against foolish course of action.
4:56 Follow kitten’s line of sight to black spot on the wall.
4:57Yell bad words at full volume when realize black spot is SPIDER roughly the size of a human head.
4:58 – 5:00 Kitten takes advantage of distraction to fly back into bed, launch self off stomach toward wall, paws flailing wildly in attempt to swat spider.
5:01 Launch self out of bed onto floor as realize that kitten has knocked spider off wall and POSSIBLY INTO BED.
5:02 Contemplate the sweet release of death as the following 3 things occur simultaneously: 1. Ridiculous Animal #3 begins batting spider around bed as if has found best toy ever. 2. Ridiculous Animal #1 scrambles into bed (using ME as step stool) to join in the spider swatting shenanigans. 3. Ridiculous Animal #2 wakes up decides that this CLEARLY rates as THE SCARIEST SITUATION EVER and begins barking to alert whole house—and possibly whole neighborhood—to situation.
5:03-5:05 Waste precious minutes deciding which animal to attend to (by which I mean MURDER) first.
5:06 Watch in horror as cat stops batting spider across sheets and EATS IT!!
5:07 – 5:08 Grab cat and shake like rag doll, attempting to retrieve enormous and obviously poisonous spider before can kill cat.
5:09-5:11 Yell bad words, nurse wounds, and make immediate mental note to declaw cat ASAP.
5:12 – 5:35 Remember do actually love cat and do not want it poisoned so race for computer and make COLLOSSAL MISTAKE of researching cats eating spiders on internet…why , why, WHY do I keep doing this to myself? When am I going to learn that the internet only serves to freak me out more???? Especially since, in my ADD induced search I got immediately distracted by pictures of the alleged CAMEL SPIDER supposedly found in Iraq that grows to the size of a dinner plate, lays its eggs in camels’ stomachs, where the babies eventually EAT THEIR WAY OUT. In fact, a recent report stated that they are very dangerous to humans, stating that:
When a Camel Spider bites, it injects you with a Novocain type
drug that instantly "numbs" your skin and the surrounding tissue.
You can't even tell you've been bitten while you're sleeping. When you wake up, you find part of your leg or arm severely chewed because
the Camel Spider has been gnawing on it ... all night long!
And these monsters are slowly being introduced to America as they sneak back in the luggage and equipment of our troops. Which is the only thing slow about them because the camel spider can run 25 mph, will chase people around, SCREAMING all the while…
Can you imagine if my poor little kitty had tried to fight this creature:
http://images.whatsthatbug.com/images/camel_spider_sandoval.jpg
Because I occasionally overreact, it took me about 10 seconds to remember that there had been a guy returning from Iraq on my plane home from Florida, to wonder if his luggage had been anywhere near mine, and start imagine the camel spider lurking in my closet, waiting to pounce.
Luckily, it only took me about 10 minutes of freaking out to remember that sometimes the Internet contains information that is a tiny bit exaggerated.
Yah, this was one of those times.
Snopes.com assures me that the majority of the details reported above are completely false…especially the part about them coming to America .
So I was going to start researching the effects of spider ingestion on a tiny little cat but, to be honest, the issue seemed a bit moot (or moo, if you’re a Friends fan) since the animal in question was busy attempting to balance itself on my HEAD during the entire Camel Spider drama and clearly was suffering no ill effects at all.
So now I don’t know if I should be happy I have a spider slayer or worried about its choice of toy…in either case, I would like to repeat that this animal has NOT brought peace and quiet to my home.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Oh, Bitter Irony!
Today is a professional development day/grade record day so we don’t have kids. I just came into my room and saw the message light on my phone flashing. As you teachers know, this is never a happy moment. It usually means an angry parent phone call. So, I listened to my message and, sure enough, it’s an irate parent. Her son got an I (needs improvement) in citizenship and while he might deserve it, why wasn’t she notified in advance, and as a matter of fact, he probably didn’t deserve it and even if he did deserve it, she should have been notified…and on and on and on….
So, I call her back and say “Mrs. X, this is Kimberly Haugh returning your call—“
And she cuts me off to rant again about how she wasn’t notified and that’s so irresponsible, it’s downright incompetent etc. for about five minutes straight.
Some of you are expecting to hear me say that I am getting more and more steamed as this continues…but I’m not. I’m giggling like a little kid, trying to hold the phone away from my mouth so she won’t hear me…the reason for which is about to be explained.
Anyway, she finishes her rant demanding to know why I didn’t call her and let her know I was concerned about her son’s behavior.
And I said “Ma’am, I don’t have your son. I don’t even know who he is. I was just calling to let you know you got the wrong teacher.”
Dead silence.
So I say, “In fact, I teach at Central High School and our grades haven’t gone out yet…I think you may have called the wrong SCHOOL.”
Dead silence.
Feeling all kinds of empowered now—especially since the odds of meeting her are slight--I add “Which makes complaints about competence a little ironic, huh?”
And she says “You’re right, thank you.” And hangs up.
I haven’t stopped laughing since it happened…
So, I call her back and say “Mrs. X, this is Kimberly Haugh returning your call—“
And she cuts me off to rant again about how she wasn’t notified and that’s so irresponsible, it’s downright incompetent etc. for about five minutes straight.
Some of you are expecting to hear me say that I am getting more and more steamed as this continues…but I’m not. I’m giggling like a little kid, trying to hold the phone away from my mouth so she won’t hear me…the reason for which is about to be explained.
Anyway, she finishes her rant demanding to know why I didn’t call her and let her know I was concerned about her son’s behavior.
And I said “Ma’am, I don’t have your son. I don’t even know who he is. I was just calling to let you know you got the wrong teacher.”
Dead silence.
So I say, “In fact, I teach at Central High School and our grades haven’t gone out yet…I think you may have called the wrong SCHOOL.”
Dead silence.
Feeling all kinds of empowered now—especially since the odds of meeting her are slight--I add “Which makes complaints about competence a little ironic, huh?”
And she says “You’re right, thank you.” And hangs up.
I haven’t stopped laughing since it happened…
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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.
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!
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!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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:
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:
Friday, July 20, 2007
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!
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!
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