We opened our daughter's mail the other day not because we make a habit of such snooping, but because the letter had a familiar appearance.
More tripe from self-proclaimed astro-parapsychologist Valerie Morrison.
I'm not sure how people, especially youngsters, get on the mailing list of someone like Valerie Morrison. Nor am I certain of how to avoid such mail.
More importantly, I wonder how many young people out there really fall for such rubbish. ''I had to get this letter off to you immediately,'' Valerie writes. ''I feel that you are worried about something private and very personal that nobody knows about. I feel that you are also concerned about money ... especially now.''
Bingo, Valerie. You just struck a chord with virtually every person in the United States.
Judging from her picture on the letterhead, Valerie is kind of beckoning. She's blond, has lots of jewelry and appears to spend hours in front of the mirror.
''You don't know me,'' Valerie continues, ''but you probably have heard of me. I'm a famous parapsychologist. I've been getting these kinds of feelings since I was a child. It runs in the family.''
That's interesting, Valerie. I didn't know fibbing was an inherited trait.
Valerie goes on to explain that when she was five years old she stuck a fork in an electric outlit and was ''pronounced dead.'' But God, she says, brought her back and ''gave me a gift to help people like you.''
Valerie also claims to have predicted the assasination attempt of former President Ronald Reagan. She says she used to write a daily column for the Philadelphia Journal.
The Journal, of course, went out of business some 10 years ago. So I called the Philadelphia Enquirer and a newsroom editor said he'd never heard of the woman.
At the Las Vegas Sun, one of the newspapers in Valerie's reported home town, the librarian told me she had nothing in the clipping files about anyone named Valerie Morrison, let alone about an astro-parapsychologist by that name.
And the telephone operator confirmed that there is no listing for a Valerie Morrison in Las Vegas.
Upon closer review, I noticed the letter had been postmarked on Sept. 5 from a place with a different zip code than Valerie's. I called the local postmaster who said the letter, according to the zip code, had been mailed from the San Diego area.
Valerie, wherever she lives, apparently operates out of mail drops. That way she can't be held accountable, I guess. Her letter is a combination of typewritten and what appears to be, but isn't, hand writing with a pen. She even throws in a few misspelled words, corrected in ink, to give it a personal feeling.
''When I have a strong hunch about something, it often happens. And I have a strong hunch about your future,'' Valerie writes. She goes on to say all goals can be attained.
''You just need very special guidance. That's where I come in. God kept me on earth to shine a light into the fog of the future. And show the road ahead. Please take what I'm offering you. It is yours, my dear new friend.''
What Valerie offers is something called a 365-day ''Personal Actualization Analysis.'' The ''PAA,'' she claims, will reveal talents and weaknesses, tell how to handle difficult relationships, give reasons ''why you feel the need to be free'' and ''pinpoint opportunity windows.''
It's also important, Valerie said, to send a lock of hair (in a sealed plastic bag to ensure purity) or something else personal so she can get better vibes.
All this, of course, for just $20 ''to cover costs of stationery, stamps, expenses, my time and that's it.''
There's also a purported contract that must be signed, whereby Valerie is given ''exclusive rights'' to use the answers in the questionnaire.
Of course, Valerie also guarantees her work. If not satisfied, ''I'll return your $20. This is a guarantee,'' she writes.
Fat chance. People like Valerie have a habit of disappearing. And you're not going to get much back from a post office box.
It was nice to find out that our daughter had already received and trashed other mail from Valerie and she understood why we opened the latest letter before she got home.
''I started getting that stuff after I wrote to the National Enquirer for a psychic evaluation a couple years ago,'' she said. ''I think it's funny.''
