Creative License

I finally have an Oklahoma driver’s license!! I got it about 2 weeks ago with just a few hiccups:

1. Like the fact that as I was, once again, waiting in the lobby of the Department of Public Safety this seemingly normal guy came over, sat down next to me, said hello and then carefully explained that everything is unhealthy these days…in fact, the only metal that is really good for you is BRASS but your body can’t digest it.

I have to be honest, it was a little difficult to toss back that particular conversational ball.

2. Or the fact that the state of Oklahoma now requires a digital scan of the fingerprints of both index fingers before allowing you to get your release from the Department of Public Safety…which doesn’t seem like a challenge except for the fact that I am now wearing my fingernails at a length best described as “trailer-trash hoosier” and the machine kept misreading. 
 

3. Or the fact that, although as a new resident you have to go to the Department of Public Safety with 64 different forms of ID to get the release to get your license, you can’t actually acquire your license at the aforementioned department. You have to go to a “tag agency” to get that. And, when I looked at the woman in confusion, she assured me “Don’t worry, honey, you can just run down to the East Side to get what you need.”
 

At which point, because I’m still thinking like a St. Louisan, I’m sure I changed from confused to horrified because the words “East Side” conjures up images of strippers, drug deals, and murder. And I don't need any of that.
 

But when I did brave the short journey down to the East Side Tag Office, it was noticeably lacking in strippers, drug dealers, or murderers…and I did get my license there after another five minute struggle with my ridiculous nails and the fingerprint machine.

And if you think this is the end of the adventures, keep in mind that Opie and I are, once again, bringing all the animals home with us…I'm no psychic but I sense drama in our future.

Which is a rough segue to my final note: if you didn’t get a Christmas card from Opie and I this year, do not feel slighted and furiously cross us off your list. NO ONE got a Christmas card from us this year. I mean, for the love of heaven, it took me FIVE MONTHS to get basic driving privileges and that’s something I need every day. Christmas comes once a year and it kind of snuck up on us…we still have 2 presents to buy…and by we I, of course, mean ME….we’ll do better next year…

More Life In Oklahoma

So I’ve been in Oklahoma for another month and, as you all probably suspected, the adventures continue!

My latest adventure?

My incredibly futile attempt to get my Oklahoma driver’s license.

You would think this would be a relatively simple task…I mean, when I moved to Missouri from Illinois, it was a huge pain in the butt…but that was only because I had foolishly let my Illinois license expire and therefore had to take the written test which I assumed would be easy and instead had questions like “When driving at night in the fog, for how many feet should your lights be visible? 300, 350, or 400?”

Let me just close the curtain on that particular disaster and assure you that I learned my lesson. Not only did I go to the Oklahoma Tag Office before my Missouri license will expire, I also actually got online, checked the website and carefully assembled all the documentation I needed.

And I was so incredibly pleased with myself that the ridiculous line at the Tag Office didn’t even phase me. I smirked at the different people getting turned away for lack of proper paperwork and lost myself in near hysterical self-congratulation.

Until, of course, it was actually my turn.

I walked confidently up to the gum-chomping, vacant-eyed, twenty-year-old clerk, handed over all my stuff and she, if possible, got even MORE vacant. “You can’t do that here.” She said.

And I sad “Do what?” meaning ‘What is it that I can’t do here?’

Unfortunately, this is Oklahoma and she thought I meant “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you.” So she said “YOU CAN’T DO THAT HERE.” Louder.

Which I, of course, took as a challenge to see who could actually be the loudest. “WHAT CAN’T I DO HERE?” I shouted back.

“Trade in an out of state license. You have to go to the Department of Public Safety to do that. To, you know, get a copy of your driving record and stuff.

“Wow,” I said. “That would have been really helpful information to have on the website.”

Unfortunately, sarcasm is clearly NOT covered in the Oklahoma Tag Office training so, she looked at me terribly confused and, of course, said “Do what?”

And I punched her in the face.

Ok, not really.

In the fantasy I was imagining in my head, sure, but in real life I just heaved a huge sigh and said “Never mind. Can you tell me where the Department of Public Safety is?”

“Oh, sure!” She said, perking up for the first time. “It’s in the Old Eastland Mall.”

And when I said “I don’t know where that is.” She said “Do what?”

And that's when I punched her in the face.

Ok, fantasy again…instead, I summoned up my best “You’re kind of an idiot but I’m a teacher at heart so I will put up with you” voice and explained that the whole reason that I needed to go to the Department of Public Safety was because I’M NOT FROM HERE so directions with landmarks—particularly OLD landmarks aren’t terribly helpful.

It only took about 5 more minutes to make her understand and get somewhat coherent directions.

And her directions were good but it would have been better if she had told me to drive north until I was afraid for my life, turn right at Murderville, pass the abandoned neighborhood in which EVERY window was boarded over, and turn left into the mall. Then drive around the entire mall lot twice until I knew for sure that the Department of Public Safety is the only office with no sign on the outside of the building…and I was there!

And you would think that the Department of Public Safety would inspire people to feel safe but the thing is, they themselves are clearly so creeped out by the environment in which they are located that you have to take a number off the door and they won’t even let you in the office until it’s called. Instead you have to wander around the lower lobby of the old Eastland Mall, dodging water from the leaking roof and making small talk with gang members.

Nice.

So there I was, with the 9 and 1 already dialed on my phone, primed to press that final 1, when I finally get called inside.

I take in my old license, my wedding license, my new social security card, and a postcard that proves my residency to the window, hand it over and the guy says “You also need your birth certificate or passport to trade in an out of state license.”

Newsflash, this is more information that would have been helpful ON THE FREAKING WEBSITE!!!!

Which I was more than happy to point out to this guy but, as we have already seen, my sarcasm is not universally appreciated.

“I’m not in charge of the website,” the guy said.

“Clearly, no one is.” I agreed.

Oddly, this didn’t endear me to him…nor did my sweet inquiry that perhaps he was just making this up to irritate me , like some bizarre newbie to Oklahoma hazing ritual.

He wasn’t.

So I immediately stormed out of the office, grabbed the first gang member I could find, pointed out the Oklahoma official and said “You wouldn’t believe what THAT GUY just said about you…and your mom.”

Ok, kidding again..because if anyone is going to lose it and attack an Oklahoma Department of Public Safety employee, that person is going to be me….possibly this week when I attempt once again to get my license. Stay tuned for a news report featuring me and the Department of Public Safety, liberally sprinkled with the phrase “Lunatic rampage!”


Check out the other Theme Thursday rerun posts by clicking the link below:
 

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Life In Oklahoma

Ok, so I’ve been in Oklahoma for just a tad over two months and I have been incredibly crappy at staying in touch…which isn’t to say I haven’t thought about you all, I’ve just been adjusting to life as a married Okie.

It’s been interesting…they sell LIVE CHICKENS at the hardware store three blocks from our house, and I have had to face the harsh reality of Bible Belt liquor laws. It’s been tough.

In fact, getting married and combining our four-legged families has not been without its hiccups... For example, there was the hysterical time I went upstairs, found Opie lying on the bed and scolded him for still having his shoes on. The next night, I went up and he had his shoes off…but they were lying on the bed next to him….like it was the fact that they were on HIS FEET that annoyed me, not the fact that they were ON THE BED.

Equally upsetting, at least to him, is when I end a discussion with “Don’t try using your logic on me, I’m not feeling very logical right now!”

But all in all, we’re getting along great and, in spite of the fact that I’m remodeling the ENTIRE HOUSE, are living together in relative contentment.

The real challenge has been the animals…Peek is still convinced that he’s a human and while he’s happy that I got him another dog, he can’t understand why Bubba won’t listen to him and always tries to steal his bones. Prince, on the other hand, is still convinced he’s a dog and spends his time figuring out new and interesting ways to whack the other dogs on the head and run away. Bubba is the only one who understands that he is, in fact, a real dog…but he has decided that I am HIS human and that he should protect me at all costs.

Which is great in a lot of ways…but I’m not really used to big dogs…and they’re a lot more intimidating than small dogs…A lesson both the lawn guy and I learned just a few days ago. See, the lawn care people are supposed to knock on the door and let me know they’re here before starting on the lawn. But sometimes they forget…and they don’t come on a regular schedule so I don’t know when they’re going to be out there. So, late last week, the stars align and the lawn guy is trying to let himself in the backyard at the same moment that I’m letting the dogs out of the house.

Bubba does not take this well.

Peek also does not take this well…but Peek is old, a little fat, and more than willing to wait and see if the guy has a treat before ripping his throat out. Bubba, on the other hand, charges the fence like the guy was made out of ham.

I, of course, go running out and over to the fence as fast as I can…and am relieved to see that the guy hadn’t actually come in the gate yet…but now I have to get Bubba calmed down in the face of this clear and present danger.

A task made more difficult by the fact that the lawn guy is standing right on the other side of the fence, chattering away nervously, apologizing and assuring me he won’t come in until I get Bubba back in the house. The problem is, Bubba can’t believe that this EVIL STRANGER is actually DARING to talk to me while he is on guard duty. So the more the guy talks, the more Bubba runs around me in wide circles, barking and growling at the guy like a maniac.

If this happens with your Chihuahua, you pick him up, carry him inside, and praise his bravery. If this happens with your half-Rottweiler mix, you interrupt the lawn guy’s sixteenth apology and ask him to go stand by his car.

“Or better yet,” you say with a smile “actually get in it.”

“Are you serious?” The lawn guy then asks.

“This dog knows you’re here to kill me,” you explain. “And he’s not going to let you.”

On the one hand, I’m pretty sure THAT GUY will never forget to let me know he’s here before spraying the lawn…on the other hand, I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m funny AT ALL.

And that’s life here in Green Country.

Why Green Country?

I have no idea…I did some research and have not found a satisfactory answer, especially since things have not exactly been green here in Green Country. In fact, since the entire month of August was so hot I thought I was actually going to burst into flames (It got up to 115 degrees, people! Actual degrees, not the heat index!) the landscape has been anything but green. Still every morning the newscasters say things like “What kind of weather do we have in store for Green Country?” so Green Country it is.

And this is a rough segue into my last difficulty in adjusting: The language barrier.

Which is odd. I mean, this is the United States. And in my former position as Conflict Mediator Extraordinaire of Parkway Central High School, I became quite an expert at decoding the mysteries of language variations…I mean, if I can figure out things like “booty stank” and “sawn!” and “ two flats on a Cadillac” how hard could the slang in Oklahoma be?

And, to be honest, some of the differences sound odd to me but are understandable…like when people tell me that they’re “fixin’” to do something or that “we love us some (insert whatever).” Both of these things happen on a regular basis….the woman who did my nails told me that “We love us some Quiktrip here in Tulsa.” The woman who cut my hair did the double whammy and told me that she was “fixin to go on a bike trip” with her husband because “we love us some motorcycles on the open road.” And, lest you be under the impression that this expression is only used by members of the beauty profession, let me assure you that several other people have expressed their ungrammatical love of a variety of things.

Weird.

Weird but understandable.

What’s weird but not understandable is the expression “Do what?”

I hear the expression “do what?” and I think someone is asking me what I want them to do. Sadly, this is NOT what the expression “do what” means.

Let me give you a case in point: I am at the grocery store trying to get in the checkout line. There is one lane that has a checker but the light isn’t on. So, I can’t tell if it’s open or not and I say to the woman “Excuse me, are you open?”

And she kind of jumps and says “Do what?”

Which confuses me because I don’t know what the heck that means. So, like a normal person, I say “Excuse me?”

And the woman thinks that I just didn’t hear her…so, slowly, LIKE I’M STUPID, she looks at me and says “DO WHAT?”

And because I handle it sooooo well when people talk to me like I’m stupid, I say “No, I heard what you said. I just have no idea what it means.”

Then, in this incredibly snotty tone, she explains “I didn’t hear YOU, so I said DO WHAT?”

Since this is the only actual grocery store in our suburb and I will be shopping there again, I made the prudent decision to just go to another line…while observing quietly that those words do NOT make sense. Well, kind of quietly…I mean, I didn’t yell. And there’s a chance she didn’t hear me.

In any case, according to Opie, in Okie-ese, this expression means “Could you repeat that, please, I didn’t hear you.”

If I start using it, please be sure to punch me in the mouth.

Anyway, this is getting long and doesn’t even begin to touch on mice and ghosts and other intruders but I’ll save that for a later date…hope everyone is well…and if you ever get to Green Country, come see us because we do love us some company here at the Yates house!

Murders, Mysteries and Other Mayhem

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….

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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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.

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…