A ghost hunter here in Caledonia? Yes, indeedy. Recent news offered a story about a local woman who investigates spooky phenomena. How very cool! I have a couple of marketing suggestions: Curious customers may select an initial assessment of a spirit’s “sitz mark” on dusty surfaces. The service is called Ghost Bunsters. Completely creeped-out customers can buy the Casper Cleaning option. Sort of a house exorcism party, but without snacks. Many people, including myself, have had experiences jarring enough to make us “openminded,” and I applaud our local ghost hunter. For purposes of this humor…

In a feeble effort to join the 21st century, I recently ditched my landline and replaced it with a cell. And, lo! It came to pass that mine hip-hop coolness doth runneth over in full measure, like, a lot. But not for long, toots. Within minutes, I was again behind the power curve. Consider the following:  Hay, bah.  It be. Just wander if wee steel on fodin tonight. Gibby call one you get this and lay minnow, Kay? Be glad too, pick you if one. What? You don’t understand?  Oh, come on, it’s the auto-texted version of a voicemail I left on a friend’s phone:  Hey, Bob. It’s me. Just wondering if …

BFF.  Best Friends Forever?  Well, not exactly. For some of us, BFF stands for Body Function Freak-out. Chalk it up to a mix of post-WWII culture, religion, and family, but I learned early on that some body parts and functions were okey-dokey, others not so much.  Heartbeat, blinking and hearing -- God’s handiwork. But stinky feet, earwax, and gas? Oh, the hot coals of shame! Puberty was a minefield beginning with “training bras.” What exactly were we training, our bosoms? Behind-the-back finger dexterity? Our patience?? I suspect the label was just a marketing ploy to wean us prematurely …

I finally get it. The big deal about the world ending on May 21st was called a “Rapture!” Oy vey. I’d been terrified that something would rupture! Vanna, another vowel, please? But holy hippos and blessed begats! Someone reset Earth’s expiration date for October. Yay!! More time to get ready, even if some of us don’t have a chance in hell (heh, heh) of nailing a window seat on the Rapture Express. Seems to me, trying to watch the fiery end of the world will be at least as tricky as viewing an eclipse. Therefore, I’m making a safe-viewing box out of a milk carton, using the official …

 Glory halleluiah, and let the chocolate be done unto me, Amen!  In my junk mail coupons there lurked a Papa Murphy’s ad for a S’mores Dessert Pizza! Does this mark the end of an era? Gone, then, are the “good old days” when a gaggle of adventurous, sugar-craving Scouts had to haul boxes of raw S’more ingredients from a grumpy troop leader’s station wagon to a desolate southeastern Wisconsin campsite. Gone are the inevitable encounters with broken crackers, stale marshmallows, or missing candy bars that no one ’fessed up to taking, proving that even a Scouts’ honesty has its limits.    A pre-…

KAPOWIE!! That’s how fast I was smitten.  And for my money, there is no mightier form of smittenment than good old-fashioned competence. For example, a WE Energies guy recently arrived at my house to check out a possible leak. He was courteous, average looking, short, stocky, and a fellow Boomer.  However, as waves of confidence, information and detector readings trailed him through the house, he grew noticeably taller, younger, and…OMG, is that you, George Clooney?!! And whilst my smitten brain wrestled with this warped perception, I simultaneously stewed about repair costs, felt my stomach …

Organ donor. I’ve always wanted to donate an organ but, sadly, I don’t have one. My ceilings are too low for all those pipes. So I asked the nice folks at the State Motor Vehicle office about other instruments. Nope, they only take organs and—get this—you must be dead! Silly government workers crack me up. Funerals are sad events to plan or attend, but we’ll never cry at our own. A few mourners will sniffle, but many will discuss the makeup job and saunter off to a catered lunch. My thoughts, sung to the tune of My Favorite Things: Pearly white caskets with blue satin sashes, Horrid tan …

Just about the time you read this, I’ll be undergoing surgery for a horrid disease that, lucky for us, is rare in our neck of the woods—that disease is leprosy. Supposedly, leprosy is transmitted by a virus. And I’m pretty dang sure I caught it on St. Patrick’s Day, the one day each year when Irish leperchauns slink around behind the scenes in ugly clothes. I’m glad the little fellas ditched the traditional leprous rags in favor of pointy shoes and shamrocks, but who the hell needs belts with oversized buckles just to hold up tiny leggings? Thank goodness, leprosy can be treated. I’ll be …

Holy cow! Winning the Snowdance comedy competition in Racine is one big fat feather in my writer’s cap. Sadly, I don’t own such a cap, but I’m hoping my Fargo trooper’s hat will work. Speaking of feathers, did you check out the movie stars’ gowns at the Academy Awards? Aaack! All that fluff! My award was way better than an Oscar because I didn’t have to suffer through a ceremony stuffed into a feathery frock, with plumes drifting up my nose like a pillow fight that never ends.     But, on the downside, my life is teeming with paparazzi!  How do celebrities tolerate it? I mean, a little added …

Caledonia has everything a person could want, oh you betcha.  We enjoy our lakeshore, forests, and a discount kringle outlet. And we have a Justin Bieber lookalike on the village board! Oh, and a columnist who makes stuff up. But if you’re new to the area, beware of a lurking anomaly: photon pooling. Years ago when I began residenting here, the ambient light seemed normal. But gradually I found noticeable dimness near all reading materials. Over time, the magnification needed in my cheapie reading glasses jumped from 1.25 to a whopping 4.0! Thank goodness, the problem isn’t my eyes. That’s …

As the big storm approached, I skidded over to the grocery store for a few things, along with the rest of the free world. It’s amazing what people buy, isn’t it?  The guy in front of me at the checkout had filled his cart with boxes of dog treats, and about 40 bananas. That’s it. Makes you wonder…on second thought, let’s not go there. Wasn’t digging out FUN?!?  Years ago I might’ve snagged assistance by playing the “flirt” card, baring a little leg to any dude on a snow plow, and frostbite be damned. Then came the self-sufficiency stage when “I am woman, hear me roar!” meant doing it all …

Did you hear about the recent drug bust in our area? Well, buckaroos, yours truly caught a glimpse of the action! Yup. I was tooling along Douglas Avenue when a man and woman sprang from a dark green van—with guns! Luckily, I was sufficiently caffeinated to notice the huge, neon “FBI” on their jackets, and thus avoided a big muckup because I did not call 911. Whew! That was one disturbing “Dear Diary” moment! I’m disturbed, in part because drugs are nasty business. But mostly I’m upset about the protective gear worn by the FBI lady—talk about unflattering lines!!  Her army green “barrel” …