tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82769242428088314452024-02-19T17:32:03.540-08:00Cosmic ConfessionalThe adventures of an accidental psychicSusettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-43783798196561594972016-09-09T08:12:00.000-07:002016-06-04T17:37:13.686-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"Instructions for living a life:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pay attention. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Mary Oliver</span></div>
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What the hell is an "accidental psychic"? In my case, it's someone who had an experience in childhood which altered the way her brain processes information. The terms "near-death experience" and "out of body experience" are tossed around loosely these days, and thanks to the pioneers of the 1980s and 90s who wrote about such strange concepts, we have woven these terms into our social lexicon and tend not to sneer or snicker as much as we once did about this sort of witchy-woo-woo talk. Okay....the snickering and sneering still happen. I, too am guilty of cynical eye-rolling during certain conversations about the "new age".</div>
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Being a psychic was not a career aspiration, nor did I invest much time into learning how to read energy or memorizing metaphysical parlor tricks with which to astound friends and family. The realization that I possessed a certain ability was present soon after a near-death experience I had when I was eight years old. At the time of the experience, my mother was not interested in my new-found ability to tune into the feelings of others or to be able to occasionally "see" what was going to happen in the future. I learned quickly that this topic was dangerous territory, and that it was better to observe silently than to share what I was sensing or "reading" in the people around me.</div>
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Around the time I turned 13, my mother discovered Catholicism and its tales of the long-suffering saints as well as a new-found appreciation of and resonance with martyrdom. Once she had hopped aboard the Jesus train, there were many discussions about heaven and hell (<i>"hell is the punishment for our bad choices"</i>, she would intone gravely with pointed looks at whomever she believed might possibly be making "bad choices" at the moment) and the placement of a Virgin Mary statue in the basement where she would kneel, pray tearfully and swear she smelled roses. Before the arrival of the Mary statue, the finished basement was where I would go to listen to records and mope about boys I had crushes on who didn't know I existed (or worse, DID know I existed, but didn't care). There was a telephone down there as well, and many hours were spent giggling and gossiping with friends out of the earshot of my mother. Once she began using my sanctuary as her personal prayer room, I moved the stereo into my bedroom and shut the door on her spiritual suffering.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By observing this particular brand of spirituality (a word I was not familiar with in my teen years), I began to turn my nose up at anything that felt religious or full of dogmatic rules. I was still able to feel or sense things about the people around me, but with Mother Martyr in the house, it was not comfortable to do so. I turned the dial on my ability way down in order to avoid feeling my mother's angst (which was fueled by a steady stream of Franzia boxed wine on ice) and my father's simmering rage (which was doused only by regular infusions of Wild Turkey).</span></div>
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When I turned 40, I was invited by a friend to learn a technique called Remote Viewing which is a fancy term for reading the energy of people, places and events. I innocently walked into that workshop not knowing that it would be the thing that would kick the mental door down that I had locked when I was a teen. As I practiced the technique, it felt like I was waking up to who I really was...which was frightening. I was working at a medical office at the time and began to know things about the patients that the doctors seemed clueless about. If I volunteered an opinion about the true origin of someone's neck pain, they would look at me as though I was possessed by demons and quickly change the subject. On the occasions in which it was discovered that my intuition had been correct, a new look would cross their faces....sometimes confusion, sometimes fear, sometimes astonishment.</div>
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Absolutely none of this was comfortable for me. It felt like a re-visitation of my childhood in which I was either tippy-toed around or brushed aside. Except that this time, the Genie was really out of the bottle, and it wasn't going to be silenced or ignored.</div>
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A funny thing happens to folks when they believe you have access to information that is hidden from most people. They begin pulling you aside to have whispered conversations about their very private experiences and asking you what you think is going to happen next. They show you a suspicious mole on their shoulder and want to know if it's cancer. They ask you for the winning Lotto numbers. They want to know if George Bush will be re-elected to a second term. They look at you strangely and treat you differently.<br />
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On one hand, it was a magnificent thrill ride. Always a reclusive person with an aversion to crowded places and emotional situations, I was now being encouraged to give readings to people who wanted to know about their past lives or future events. At first, I stuck to the Remote Viewing protocol and refused to speak to people face-to-face. I asked them to email me their questions, and I would write out the replies by hand, which was a laborious, exhausting process as some of the sessions rambled for 20 pages or more.<br />
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These hand-written readings were proving to be accurate as well as fascinating, but the labor-intensive protocol I was rigidly adhering to was wearing thin. My fear of speaking to someone in person and answering their questions was daunting. What if I gave them the wrong information? What if they didn't like what they heard? What if I had to deliver terrible news about a health situation? All of these fears nearly brought an end to my blossoming business, and I laid awake at night wondering what I was getting myself into.<br />
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Fast forward twelve years. I left the medical office in 2002 and allowed myself to claim my gifts of intuitive knowing. I found that the word "psychic" made me cringe and imagine a wacky woman in a caftan and turban, gazing trance-like into a crystal ball, so I refused to use that word and called what I did "Intuitive Guidance". Nobody complained. As the years went on, I had the presence of mind to collect stories from thousands of sessions which seemed incredible to me, and perhaps they will to you as well, Dear Reader.<br />
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I hereby invite you on an anecdotal hayride in which names have been changed and
situations amalgamated to protect the identities of people who have shared their stories with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>(Warning: Fragile flowers, Nervous Nellies, anyone about to enter a
convent or seminary, those who are mortified by the discussion of sexual
proclivities and perversions, offended by raunchy slang and/or profanity or
shocked by frank discussions of the various and sundry body parts and their
functions are hereby cautioned to click away immediately.)</i></div>
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<br />Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-14141556560883643372016-07-05T13:30:00.000-07:002016-07-07T15:07:17.227-07:00<b><u>Narcissus Was Here Part I</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“I don't care what you think unless it is about me.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Kurt Cobain</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>Dear Diary:</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i><b>Year 6</b> Naive intentions for guiding people towards solutions to their problems degenerating rapidly into simply holding space while they explore depraved fantasies and describe their unappetizing tendencies and behaviors. Apparently, my input is not of much importance since most people do not heed the common sense advice and go on to do whatever they damn well please, then sheepishly report it all back to me at our next session. Also, I seem to have more credibility when I wear mascara.</i></span><br />
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It’s been said that if you do something fairly well, you will be expected to do that thing at least 10,000 times. At the beginning of the process, that projection doesn’t mean very much since the theory hasn’t actually gelled into a grim reality yet, so you go about your business with a smile on your face until someone asks you how many sessions you think you've done in fourteen years and you astound yourself with some quick calculations that lead you to a staggering five-digit number. This would certainly explain the compassion fatigue.<br />
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There is some compelling evidence pointing to the fact that narcissists are attracted to Empaths like fire ants to a Twinkie. Our kind hearts and desire to help can easily be abused by folks who think only of themselves and what they can get out of others. In this job, I have been challenged continually to establish and maintain substantial boundaries, but even with that awareness, a few energy vampires have managed to sneak through the holes in the screen door.<br />
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<b><u>Monkey business</u></b><br />
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A new client arrives to our appointment fifteen minutes late wearing a too-tight <i>Planet of the Apes</i> t-shirt and complaining about the long line of hipsters at Starbucks. When I ask him to sit down so we can begin our session, he stares at the chair for a few moments and then in a concerned tone says, "You know, chairs were invented by dictators who wanted to control the populace."<br />
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Since I am not certain if he's joking, I sit in a chair to demonstrate the relative safety of the furniture, but he pretentiously re-positions a small footstool and is determined to use this as his perch for the next hour rather than conform to the sinister plot of government-controlled seating.<br />
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<i>(Dear God, please help me to squelch the urge to roll my eyes, snicker or verbally castrate the assclown sitting across from me.)</i><br />
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Flying on a high-octane venti Caramel Macchiato and possibly amphetamines, he immediately plunges into the deep end with questions about his recent break-up and the importance of finding a new partner who is into open-minded sexual experimentation, but thanks to his choice of low-quality simian apparel, all I can picture is two impassioned chimps and a tire swing. It is explained to me that humans are not naturally monogamous and that when we force ourselves into the moral constraints of committed relationships, our mental well-being will, inevitably suffer.<br />
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Save it for the faculty lounge, Dr. Zaius.<br />
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We march on through more smug diatribe peppered by the occasional questions he appears to already know the answers to, and at last, it's time to bring our session to a close. As I begin to wrap up our conversation, he interjects from the footstool, “Let’s both close our eyes in order to join forces during an <i>intention ceremony</i>.” In a moment of end-of-session relief, I play along and close my eyes as he begins to call in "spirits from the unseen dimensions" to bless each of us today. When I open one eye to look at the clock, I am horrified to find him massaging his crotch (<i>over</i> the Dockers, thank God) and immediately terminate his masturbation meditation by standing up and announcing that we are finished. Without any sense of shame, he apologizes for being so forward and asks if I want to get coffee and become better acquainted "as friends". First of all (and perhaps most importantly), I don’t drink coffee. Never have, except for a hellish stint as a breakfast waitress at a diner along the Interstate when I was nineteen years old, and even then, I had to load it up with so much milk and sugar that it was nothing more than melted coffee ice cream. Secondly, exactly how is that "casual" conversation going to go after what just happened?<br />
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I make a jokey comment about how my husband frowns upon the notion of me dating other men (which is purely speculation. I know for sure that my first husband was not pleased with my extracurricular social life at the end of our marriage, but have not yet tested my current husband's tolerance levels. I am certain that if I did, however, it wouldn't be with this schmuck) and am beyond relieved when he shrugs his shoulders and heads for the door.<br />
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I think it's time to raise my rates.<br />
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<b><u>Mid-life madness</u></b><br />
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A client I haven't seen in several years calls to make an appointment and finds a way to shoehorn in the <i><b>important news</b></i> about his recent separation from his wife which triggers an avalanche of sobbing, clueless questions about why she left. This is the main reason why I never answer the phone between sessions, but "Joe" has caught me at a weak moment and is determined to turn a scheduling call into his therapy hour.<br />
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When he arrives for his appointment a week later, Joe has pulled himself together and struts through the door a changed man; a man who is aggressively embracing his newfound single status by wearing three hundred dollar jeans and a fedora. I see that he has also traded in his sensible Prius for a red Camaro (is there any other acceptable color for a mid-life crisis vehicle?) and I cringe through the stench of his cologne at the cliché he has become in record time.<br />
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We begin talking and I quickly understand that this session is not going to be about Joe's desire to learn why his marriage failed or how he might become a better, wiser person because of the experience. No, today's conversation will be Joe's forum for a self-absorbed, pontificating monologue, the focus of which is refining (with my "help") the wording of his Plenty of Fish and Match.com profiles. Also, I will be shown several recent selfies and will be expected to determine which angle of his fifty-three year old physique in tight shorts will attract the most interest.<br />
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I glance over his profile and caution him against opening with demands that applicants be under thirty years old with large breasts and a love of walking on the beach. Suddenly I am a copy editor correcting his grammar with a red pen and pulling out the thesaurus to find alternate words for "lonely" and "horny".<br />
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When I reach the part of his profile that lists his typical Friday night activities as polishing his African tribal mask collection while whipping up some coq au vin and stargazing, I make a quick downward glance to see if Joe has grown cloven hooves since our last session. What was once a quiet, mousy accountant with a comb-over has morphed into a bad <i>Saturday Night Live</i> sketch.<br />
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Joe is listening intently to my suggestions and scribbling notes in what appears to be an old address book. When we reach a stopping point with the dating profile, I make the rookie mistake of asking him what happened with his wife and their marriage of twenty one years, which is all he needs to launch into a marathon filibuster. On and on he rambles about "not getting his needs met" and "not being a priority" until it occurs to me that this is no longer a session, but a hostage situation. To amuse myself, I keep a running mental tally of how often he says "long story short" which works out to eleven times in fifteen minutes.<br />
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I only heard from Joe one other time after that encounter. He emailed me to report that he had found the love of his life, a twenty year old "hottie" (his words) named "Destiny" whose primary objective was to get a leading role on <i>General Hospital</i>. Of course he was going to finance her rise to stardom, and in turn, she was going to be his fashion consultant because he had decided to get into modeling.<br />
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<b>Other session tidbits:</b><br />
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~Client named "Brad" who thinks of himself as an untouchable, magical demigod refers to himself in third person for the entire session: "Brad would like to record our conversation." "Brad wonders what the outcome will be to his company's merger."<br />
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~ Client in his twenties is eager to discuss a potential investment opportunity that was emailed to him: it seems the Prince of Ghana has recently fallen on hard times and needs our help to reestablish his investment holdings. "This is legit, dude! We could get super rich from this, right?"<br />
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~Forty year old client is troubled by the fact that his accidentally-pregnant girlfriend has demanded that he pay for the cost of an abortion. The main question is whether or not he is the father of the baby, and when I tell him that it appears as though he is, he sits back in the chair, pensively nodding his head while looking out the window. A moment later, he has made a decision about his financial responsibility and declares that he will split it with her because "half the roll, half the toll". <br />
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Flattery can really turn a girl's head. Here are some of the more charming comments bestowed upon me by male clients over the years:<br />
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~"I think it would be fun to have sex with you because you can communicate with extra terrestrials."<br />
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~"You're really just a cheap therapist, aren't you?"<br />
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~"I’m not giving up bread, beer, sugar or Vicodin. Can’t you just put a spell on me to make me feel better?"<br />
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~"I don’t need you…I was just curious about what you would say."<br />
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~"How often do you think about me? Can I pay you in advance to tell me if you dream about me?"</div>
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~"Can you do a psychic prostate exam on me today?"<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“To be most effective, flattery is always best applied with a trowel.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Alan Bradley</span><br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-82941045746132754552016-06-13T08:11:00.000-07:002016-06-13T08:31:17.014-07:00<b><u>Of Crystal Skulls and Ouija Boards, Part IV</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~George Bernard Shaw</span></div>
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I am frequently asked by clients and acquaintances if I can see the future for myself. I tell them that this is comparable to trying to see the back of my own neck. I know it's there and can feel when there's something wrong, but I do need to ask someone else to take a look at it from time to time to make sure there's no suspicious rash or horrific growth forming beneath my hairline. I have experienced some wonderful readings from gifted astrologers and Intuitives over the years, and I have also had some comical encounters which serve as sobering reminders of the strangeness of my profession.<br />
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I recently relocated from California to Washington state for reasons which are not entirely clear to me but probably have something to do with the fact that every seventeen years, the planet Uranus does a devilish foxtrot through my house of bad decisions. I had been feeling a strong pull to the north for years, so when some encouraging signs began to appear (signs which, in retrospect, seem sketchy and half-baked), I threw caution to the wind and leaped into the void of the unknown. As part of my self-imposed assimilation process into this new place, I decide to investigate the local metaphysical scene and happen upon what I assume is a bookstore, but instead turns out to be the office space of Mrs. Eucalypta*, a psychic advertising the following services:<br />
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-Clairvoyant Readings<br />
-House Clearings<br />
-Exorcisms (animal and human)<br />
-Curse Removals<br />
-Chakra Clearing<br />
-Pet Sitting<br />
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And hand-written in purple ink at the bottom of the menu of services taped to her door:<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Ask about our weekly <strike>speshals</strike> specials!!</span></i><br />
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Against all better judgment and the wisdom I have supposedly gleaned through the decades, I push open a heavy wooden door and find myself in a dimly lit, hazy (gift shop? museum? opium den?) jammed from floor to ceiling with dusty multi-cultural statues on dirty glass shelves, faded plastic flowers exploding out of mismatched pottery urns and inspirational plaques on the wall urging me to Dream! Believe! Hope! Smile!, some of which I have seen recently in the clearance section at Target.<br />
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Mrs. Eucalypta materializes out of the shadows, delighted by the hapless fly who has just blundered into her web. She takes me by the hand, leading me further into the gloomy vortex towards a massive metal desk that appears to have done hard time in a WWII bunker. This is where she does her readings, and it's clear by her iron grip that there is no way out at this point. My fate is sealed and there will not be an opportunity for edging towards the door - and freedom - while pretending to browse through the thousands of paperback books lining the walls or examining the snake skeleton specimens in shadow boxes. I am in the wicker chair and being read at the "<strike>speshal</strike> special low price" of $45 for Tarot <i><b>and</b></i> chakra balancing, the "cash only" terms being carefully explained to me right up front. If I do not have cash, Mrs. Eucalypta points to the front corner of the room where an ATM will provide the necessary funds for our adventure.<br />
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Even though the smoldering incense is creating a thick fog, I am able to make out the enormous diamonds this woman is wearing on every finger. I soon learn (because a mere fifteen of the forty minutes spent in this place is about me; the rest is a rambling diatribe about her complicated life) that her father purchased miles of commercial real estate in Malibu back in the 70s at rock-bottom prices and now happily hands cash to anyone in the family who asks for it as long as they are not on drugs. I then hear a little something about each of her seven children before she asks me to shuffle the Tarot deck in such a perplexing and complicated manner that she has to bark at me that I'm "doing it wrong" three times.<br />
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Once the cards are shuffled to her satisfaction, Mrs. Eucalypta lays them out and clears her throat as though she is about to make an important speech. She inquires repeatedly if I work for "the government". Each time I say that I do not, nor have I ever worked for any branch of the government. She continues to prompt me, saying that if I was in the military, that counts as government. I assure her that this is the farthest thing from what I do for a living. Switching gears, she asks if I am thinking of signing a contract. I affirm that yes, I am hoping for a publishing contract. She says excitedly, "Are you <i>writing </i>something for the government?"<br />
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Now I am casting furtive glances at the front door and thinking of plausible excuses for why I must leave immediately (left the iron on/water running in the bathtub/tea kettle boiling/worried that the dog might eat my homework). She insists, shaking her head and staring at the cards, that I have dark, abusive men all around me who want to control me, which is also the furthest thing from the truth. Finally she asks what I do for a living and I divulge that I also do psychic readings to which she replies with a snort, "Good luck with <i>that</i>. You are much more suited to a government job with benefits."<br />
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I can't say for sure if my chakras were balanced during our session, but I can report that her little white dog, which she hastily ditched into the bathroom when I arrived, never stopped barking or scratching at the door, so maybe my annoyance with that situation forced one of my errant energy centers back into alignment.<br />
<br />
During the scant fifteen minutes we are speaking about me, I learn the following things about myself while suffocating on Nag Champa fumes:<br />
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1. <b>This is the lifetime in which I will be unlucky in love.</b> Probably because I broke so many hearts in my previous life, Mrs. Eucalypta surmises while squinting at the cards and drumming her manicured nails on the desk, this will be my karmic payback. I am told that I may as well get comfortable with the fact that I will never have a satisfactory romantic relationship. It's my cross to bear, she explains smugly, no doubt thinking of <i>her </i>fantastic husband, their phenomenal sex life and freedom from financial burdens and her seven perfectly well-adjusted children.<br />
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2. <b>I am a carbon copy of my mother.</b> Like it or not, I am her spiritual twin and will live out my life in the same way she is living out hers, which means I am destined to own a modular home in a retirement community in Florida, hoarding family photos, dying my hair an unnatural shade of auburn and refusing to speak to my adult children. Why fight it any longer! Today I might as well begin drinking boxed wine and collecting small dogs with matted hair that I can fuss over in front of company when I'm not weeping in the bathroom from hurt feelings.<br />
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3. <b>I should have been born a boy.</b> This news is delivered with a look one would receive from the convenience store guy who tells you that your card has been declined, forcing you to dig around in the bottom of your purse for enough money to buy the Snickers bar you so desperately need. Apparently, there was some cosmic mix-up with the genetics, resulting in my female attributes which, according to Mrs. Eucalypta, has been the root of most, if not all of my problems in this lifetime (see revelation #1).<br />
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<br />
Prior to this fiasco, there were other notable encounters through the years:<br />
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~During a reading with a woman living and working out of an Airstream parked on rural property, a cow with runny eyes continually peeks in the windows, licking the screens and judging my choices in life.<br />
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~At the same reading, it is determined (by the psychic, not the cow) that I must drink a shot of Peach Schnapps to clear my throat chakra of the memory of being decapitated in another lifetime. She takes a shot, too, just in case my bad karma wants to wipe its ass on her dress.<br />
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~A Tarot card reading which starts off just fine, but quickly deteriorates when the psychic dissolves into tears and begins a long-winded story with too many details about her cheating boyfriend, an empty bank account and a raging case of herpes. By the end of the hour, I am counseling her, and yet she still charges me for the reading.<br />
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~The Sedona psychic who carries on animated conversations with invisible (to me, anyway) entities in the corner of the room who are supplying him with bits and pieces of information about me, all of which are wrong. I bring the session to a halt when he asks if he can touch my bare feet in order to "remove the demons" from my body.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Not her real fake name</span></i>Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-91644150796490657542016-06-03T06:36:00.000-07:002016-06-03T06:37:36.469-07:00<b><u>The Spotlight Effect Part I</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"Fame exhausts me."</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Alice Walker</span><br />
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People often ask me how I do the psychic thing. I'd love to be able to share a magic formula with them, but truthfully it's a lot like a microwave oven. I have absolutely no idea how the machinery works; I just shove a plate of food in, push a random combination of mysterious buttons and pray to God that nothing explodes in my face. Every. Single. Time.<br />
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<b><u>A little history</u></b><br />
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I attended a smallish high school in Southern California where the limited number of kids auditioning for plays practically guaranteed that we would all get whatever parts we wanted even though none of us had any real talent to speak of. It always sounded so glamorous at first: memorizing lines, evening rehearsals in the school auditorium/cafeteria, standing on stage emoting with all the subtlety and finesse of a rhinoceros who doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then opening night would arrive and my dry mouth and pounding heart would remind me that I am terrified to speak to groups of people, and that no matter how many hours I spent committing my lines to memory, they would all fly out of my head that dreadful moment when the curtain went up.<br />
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In my junior year, our drama class put on a play called <i>Godspell</i> which (for those of you who have been spared the atrocity) is a musical rehashing of Jesus' valiant attempt to teach a ragtag bunch of groupies about the meaning of life in the days leading up to his gruesome demise. In this version of the timeworn saga, Jesus wears a Superman t-shirt and modified clown face paint which gives the rest of the cast permission to dress like homeless beatniks who enjoy shoplifting from Goodwill.<br />
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When I nervously tell my mother that I have a part in this unconventional production, a wall of icy silence descends as the significance of my announcement sinks in to her newly-Catholic brain. Reading the warning signs on her face, I scramble to justify the necessity of my participation and that, after all, it's a <i>family-friendly</i> story about crucifixion and resurrection! And we SING! And (the cherry on the negotiation cake) it all comes directly from the BIBLE!!<br />
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I tiptoe through two days of the silent treatment and worse-than-usual meals as Mother Martyr "thinks it over" while she tearfully prays for the strength to deal with a teenage daughter who has somehow blundered into the drama club. In her religious reasoning, unless someone is begetting offspring through miraculous interactions with a burning bush, sacrificing a family member or being eaten alive by locusts, it simply doesn't count as a Bible story.<br />
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After a lengthy phone conversation with my drama teacher in which he assures her repeatedly that it's all very wholesome and no demonic forces are involved (I know this because I am listening in on the extension phone in the basement), my mother cautiously agrees --<i>"with concerned reservations"</i> -- to my participation in the play. Immense relief washes over me as I realize that I will not need to bow out of the production due to my mother's histrionic belief that I am selling my soul (at garage sale prices) to Satan. In the weeks that follow, she occasionally asks me to sing one of the songs or recite from a monologue, and when I oblige, she clears her throat and says without eye contact, "that's nice. You should practice more."<br />
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It's finally opening night and as I am cavorting across the stage in my absurd costume and greasy stage makeup while the anorexic boy playing Jesus dies a melodramatic death on a wobbly scaffolding, I catch a glimpse of my disapproving mother in the second row of folding metal chairs. She is scowling and already rehearsing in her mind the conversation she will have with our priest to plan the exorcism I'll need the moment this travesty is over. Also, it's entirely possible that we will have to move out of town to escape the embarrassment she thinks this will cause her.<br />
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Sadly, this episode sets the tone for all of my future public speaking engagements.<br />
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<b><u>Front-page Folly</u></b><br />
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The year is 2006 and cable television is engaged in a serious flirtation with shows about paranormal activities. Everywhere you turn, someone is waving a crucifix around attempting to taunt an angry ghost in an abandoned prison, uncovering evidence of alien activity in a pyramid, or wandering through haunted houses with special equipment, debunking footsteps in the hallway as air in the pipes. Also, vampires are considered to be ultra-sexy fringe dwellers (the decidedly <i>unsexy</i> zombie apocalypse is still years away) lurking around in forests and high school parking lots, wearing key pieces from the Hot Topic fall collection and seducing pretty young women with plunging necklines and heaving bosoms. The public's appetite for spooky stuff is growing, and the media is eager to deliver the goods.<br />
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By now, I have been conducting sessions for three years and am beginning to settle into a routine with a small client base who find me by word of mouth. I am still mystified to be stumbling around in this career and startled when someone reports that a "prediction" I made came true. I deftly change the subject when anyone asks if I teach workshops or speak to groups, and have no desire to advertise my services to the general public. In addition to realizing for the first time that I am actually an introvert, I find that I'm firmly in the grip of impostor syndrome and shrink away from connecting with anyone involved in the wacky goings-on of the metaphysical community.<br />
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As cosmic jokes go, this is the perfect atmosphere for what happens next. A reporter at the local newspaper has been working on a story about the public's current infatuation with the paranormal and my name has crossed her desk three times from different sources. She calls and leaves a message on the answering machine asking for an interview with "Susette-the-psychic". I shock myself by returning her call and agreeing to a meeting with her <i><b>and a photographer. </b></i>I wonder why photographs are necessary as the anxious adrenaline begins to course through my veins. Is she hoping that I'll levitate above the coffee table or summon ghosts from the hall closet? I distract myself by worrying about how to conceal the nervous blotchy condition on my neck and chest which presents itself in most photographs taken of me. Almost immediately after hanging up, I regret agreeing to the interview and begin to concoct reasons for why I need get out of it.<br />
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Thanks to the intervention of well-meaning friends and family members who believe I should go through with it, I do not cancel the appointment, and the reporter and photographer show up at the agreed-upon time on an unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon. I greet them with sweat soaking through my blouse and launch into nervous gibberish, already trying to explain myself and what I do before they're even in the house.<br />
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While the reporter and I get settled on the couch, the photographer takes a good, long look at me from head to toe before roaming around the house in search of good light and appropriate angles for the daunting task of shooting photos of yet another woman with double chin challenges.<br />
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I should be used to it by now, but the reporter is looking at me with a mixture of skepticism, curiosity and a little fear which sets me on edge. It occurs to me that this thing could easily go sideways; she has the power to write anything, good or bad, and the entire community will accept her words as truth. My mouth goes dry and I become conscious of my every word and movement, imagining how she must be seeing me, given the fact that she is not a believer in any sort of paranormal or mystical event - a tidbit she discloses at the very beginning of our conversation.<br />
<br />
As she asks me the usual questions about how I do what I do, what my childhood was like and if I can <i>"see things"</i> like Lotto numbers, I can tell that she is waiting for me to astound her by reading her mind or striking up a lively conversation with her dead Grandmother. Neither of these things happen and I feel as though I am wasting her time with my uninteresting and probably fictional abilities.<br />
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After a thorough search of the property, the photographer has finally found a place to take my picture, and as I pose awkwardly on the stairs by the window waiting for instruction from him, he clicks a few shots and then announces that he's finished. While packing up his equipment, he asks with a smirk if I know who will win the 2008 Presidential election. I tell him that I don't, and he makes a sarcastic "uh huh" sound as he leaves the house. The mood in the room is heavy with unmet expectations, and I recall bitterly my mother's hollow advice about needing more practice. It's a dark and somber day when the opinion of your adversary turns out to have merit.<br />
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About a week later, an evenhanded, unbiased article featuring my interview runs on the front page of the Sunday "Living" section of the newspaper. It's all very neutral and includes interviews with others from the metaphysical community talking about how psychics can come out of hiding now that paranormal events are being seen as mainstream. The startling part is the gigantic color photo of me that accompanies the article, taking up nearly half the page. By some miraculous stroke of luck, the light and angle of the photo work in my favor and someone has thoughtfully cropped the image to hide the sweat marks under my arms.<br />
<br />
By Monday evening, there are thirty nine messages on my answering machine from people wanting to schedule sessions. Some leave comments about the photo, saying that I look "angelic" and "serene", while someone from Arizona (how did <i>she</i> see the damn thing, anyway?) thinks I look "otherworldly". A man with a gravelly voice asks if I would like to accompany him to New Mexico in search of extra terrestrials, and more than a few are tearfully asking if I can communicate with dead animals or help them to find their mother's safety deposit box keys.<br />
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Weirdest of all (at least for the moment) is the woman wearing a straw hat and bedroom slippers who recognizes me in the cat food aisle of the grocery store the following week and asks if she can touch my hand so that her migraine headaches will finally stop. I tell her that she has mistaken me for someone else and slink from the store with my head down. My career as a psychic has officially begun.<br />
<br />Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-9928334409476753782014-11-17T07:04:00.000-08:002016-06-04T17:38:40.960-07:00<b><u>De-mystifying the Jargon Part I</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"Knowledge is like underwear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">It is useful to have it, but not necessary to show it off." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Nicky Gumbel </span></div>
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We live in confusing times. Just when you're feeling confidently smug about the way your life is going, some cosmic force throws you a curve ball and you find yourself in conversation with a New Age enthusiast who is bouncing weird, unfamiliar lingo around at the dinner table or during your colonoscopy.<br />
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In order to provide you with greater understanding of what you may be hearing these days, I offer the following:<br />
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<b><u>Definition of terms for the New Age novice</u></b><br />
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<b>Age of Aquarius:</b> astrological terminology referring to a blissful period of time when humanity will finally find the balance between cigarettes and tofu.<br />
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<b>Alignment:</b> hokey, overused word for being in agreement or alliance with the energy of others or unrealistic delusions of peaceful co-existence with All Beings. Example: "Dude, I was so in alignment with that pile of kale at the Farmer's Market, I began to weep as I felt myself being ripped from the ground."<br />
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<b>Astral projection:</b> your spirit leaves your body and travels to an all-inclusive Caribbean resort for the rest and cocktail-driven relaxation you can't seem to achieve while plodding through the drudgery of your waking life.<br />
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<b>Astral sex:</b> you direct your promiscuous, wanton spirit to the bedroom of George Clooney and/or Jennifer Lopez and demand that they do the bone dance with you. They <u>must</u> agree to it, otherwise it is classified as astral rape and you will be punished to the fullest extent of the Law of Attraction.<br />
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<b>Astrology:</b> the stars and planets had a meeting and decided that this is the lifetime where everything will be completely fucked up no matter what you do. Sorry.<br />
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<b>Aura:</b> energy field surrounding all living beings. Yours is probably full of holes and/or being drained by an energy vampire unless you are a victim of the zombie apocalypse and already dead.<br />
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<b>Automatic writing:</b> taking dictation from a ghost with an agenda. After writing session concludes, expect to have a sudden interest in overthrowing governments, jumping off of the Golden Gate bridge or making babies with Ashton Kutcher.<br />
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<b>Bigfoot:</b> gigantic, apelike creature who skulks around the Pacific Northwest fucking with bounty hunters and camera bugs hoping to capture evidence of his existence. Bigfoot recently posted on Twitter about his disappointment in the Animal Planet television series, <i>Finding Bigfoot</i>, stating, "I think the paparazzi might have chased me out of Los Angeles."<br />
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<b>Chakra:</b> the seven centers of spiritual power in the human body. Yours are most likely spinning in the wrong direction, jammed or completely defective, classifying you as the spiritual equivalent of a busted vending machine that appears to be full of Snickers and Funyuns but won't give up the goods when someone drops in a handful of quarters.<br />
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<b>Channeling:</b> a technique by which disembodied spirits use your voice to communicate opinions, predictions and directives while you are in an unconscious trance. When you awaken, you will discover that you spent two thousand dollars on a whole-house air filtration system and have volunteered to teach a group of effeminate young men to pole dance. Not to be confused with Ambien-induced insanity.<br />
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<b>Clairvoyance:</b> a form of extrasensory perception in which a psychic person "sees" <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(sometimes while appearing to watch a fascinating movie playing inside a crystal ball)</span></i> terrible events that will be happening to you at some undetermined time in the future. There will be no way to avoid these tragedies, and you will live your entire life waiting for the other cosmic shoe to drop.<br />
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<b>Crystals:</b> pretty, overpriced rocks believed to have magical healing powers. Example: "Holding an amethyst in your mouth for a week will heal your abscess." You will choke on this crystal as the dentist is draining the puss-filled cyst you should have dealt with a week ago.<br />
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<b>Déjà vu:</b> the feeling that you've made this same stupid fucking mistake before.<br />
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<b>Energy balancing:</b> an alternative-care practitioner attempts to fix your energy field which has become severely damaged. Circumstances likely to cause mangled auras include:<br />
~living with bitter, alcoholic parents in a mobile home in Florida after the age of 35<br />
~the video of your drunken night with three frat boys and a horny Rottweiler named Toby goes viral<br />
~your husband's new-found interest in moving to Utah and exploring polygamy with high school-age girls<br />
~discovering that your elderly father has stolen your identity and opened a massive line of credit in order to help a sweet young lady by the name of Cherry through "beauty school"<br />
~addiction to alcohol, Internet porn, ice cream, online shopping, stalking ex-boyfriends, opiates, masturbating in public places and/or gambling away your life savings at the casino while your spouse is out of town.<br />
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<b>Energy vampire:</b> someone you are required to interact with at family functions and office Christmas parties who drains you of your life force and diminishes your will to live. In addition to sucking your energy from you, may also want to "borrow" your money, car, clothing, jewelry and spouse. Will want to tag along on all-expense-paid vacations, shitting all over your good time and probably need to be bailed out of the pokey at least once.<br />
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<b>Feng shui:</b> harmonious placement of furniture and accessories in the home. Example: triangulating the vector between the recliner, refrigerator and television in order to optimize your sloth-like tendencies and eating disorders.<br />
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<b>Intuition:</b> that little voice in your head that tells you what a <b>bad idea</b> it is to do whatever it is you are thinking of doing <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(particularly Internet-related activities)</span></i>. Going against your intuition is likely to result in any or all of the following:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">burning urination<br />insomnia or night terrors<br />fainting in Costco<br />painful or prolonged erection of the penis</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">dancing with wolves<br />sensation of spinning</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">spiders living in your ear canal<br />blurred vision</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Oscar Meyer wiener<br />confusion</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">compulsion to wear a dashiki and join drumming circles even though you are white<br />projectile diarrhea</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">unplanned pregnancy<br />gasping for air</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">eye crabs<br />pounding or irregular heartbeat<br />jock itch</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">belief in a race of intelligent reptilian beings subliminally controlling planet earth through messages encoded in rerun episodes of <i>The Golden Girls</i><br />large, hive-like swelling on the face, legs, feet or sex organs</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">oily discharge leaking from anus<br />sudden interest in arson<br />oozing sores in the mouth or on the lips<br />sweating onions<br />searing pain in the genital region</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">court-ordered community service at the Naples, Florida DMV<br />unusual tiredness or weakness</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">death</span><br />
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<b>Karma:</b> destiny resulting from your previous actions. Example: Mary has 18 fish in her fish tank. She transfers 12 of the fish to her brother's fish tank. How many fish are left in Mary's tank? Answer: None. Mary was the Captain of the Titanic in a previous life, so now everything that she loves will die a terrible, watery death right before her eyes.<br />
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<b>Law of Attraction:</b> metaphysical boomerang covered in Krazy Glue. Example: you talk shit about your ex to anyone who will listen and post obsessively on Facebook about what a gigantic pain in your ass he is...three days later you have a raging case of hemorrhoids.<br />
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<b>Meditation:</b> that thing you can't do no matter how hard you try even though you dropped eight hundred dollars on incense, hemp floor cushions, Buddha statues and elastic-waist harem pants in three different colors. And let's not even talk about that infected-looking "om" tattoo on your foot.<br />
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<b>Medium:</b> "I see dead people."<br />
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<b>Namaste:</b> Hindu greeting offered in conjunction with "praying hands" which is meant to convey peaceful wishes but winds up making you want to smack the patchouli stink off of the person saying it. When seen as a bumper sticker, is usually on a Prius driven by the biggest jackass on the road doing forty miles an hour in the fast lane admiring his dreadlocks in the rear-view mirror while listening to a CD of dolphin mating sounds.<br />
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<b>Ouija Board:</b> occult oracle magnet which attracts every single degenerate spook in the universe. Once they have gained entry into your home, these demons will wreak havoc with your electronics, steal your car keys and rape your dogs. Not to be confused with unemployed drug addict son living in your basement.<br />
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<b>Palm reading:</b> an excuse for a hermit with bad breath to hold your hands and pretend that the lines on your palms indicate your tragic daddy issues and that you will have a heart attack when you are 45, which you will probably live through. But try not to worry.<br />
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<b>Past life regression:</b> in which you hope to confirm your belief that you were Cleopatra or Mary Magdalene but learn that you were actually a hideous witch who was burned at the stake or Adolf Hitler's event coordinator.<br />
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<b>Positive affirmation/mantra:</b> short phrases used to shift thought patterns from negative to positive. Example: <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(during agonizing root canal)</span></i> "I love myself too much to eat entire bags of Rolos and Smarties before bed."<br />
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<b>Psychic:</b> person with freakish ability to know many embarrassing details about you including sexual preferences and bathroom habits. You will pay cash money for this person to tell you all the things you are doing wrong in your life and how the situation will go from bad to worse unless you get your shit together<i> now</i>. This psychic person will likely go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you on the rare occasions they leave their house to gather supplies or try on harem pants at the mall.<br />
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<b>Reincarnation:</b> appallingly grim belief that your soul is reborn in different bodies throughout eternity. Thanks to that punishing bitch, karma, you will keep coming back to earth, trying to fix your idiotic mistakes until your soul finally gives up and moves on to a different galaxy to try its luck in a fresh venue.<br />
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<b>Séance:</b> when you and a few of your drunk friends decide to make contact with the spirit of Marilyn Monroe but instead conjure up the ghost of Mickey Rooney who won't shut up about the glory days at MGM. Always attracted to inebriated women while alive, the soul of Mickey will linger around the house long after the séance is over, rattling wine bottles and groping your breasts in the middle of the night.<br />
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<b>Spirit guide:</b> the entity in charge of watching over your dumb ass while you blunder your way through life, screwing up everything you touch. Similar to a guardian angel but bossier and judgmental in an annoying know-it-all way. May ride in the car with you and dick around with your radio.<br />
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<b>Tarot card reading:</b> someone wearing too many jangly bracelets pulls cards from a deck and tells you about your pathetic mommy issues and that you should eat more carrots to avoid colon cancer. She may assume a crestfallen look as she informs you that your spouse is having intercourse with a blonde he met at the gym.<br />
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<b>Third eye:</b> refers to the <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(hopefully)</span></i> invisible eye in the middle of your forehead. Symbolizes an enlightened state of consciousness and the ability to "see" what your spouse is doing on the Internet at 2:00 a.m.<br />
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<b>UFO:</b> unidentified flying objects from outer space linked to conspiracy theories, government cover-ups and poorly-faked alien autopsies filmed in someone's garage with an 8mm camera found on eBay. Currently a trendy way to get national attention on the History Channel after being anally probed by a short, grey fellow with long fingers and dead eyes.<br />
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<b>Vibes:</b> the atmosphere created by someone's emotional state. Example: "Did you feel the bad vibes coming off of Dirk when he found out he has cancer in his nut sack?"<br />
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<b>Yeti:</b> large creature resembling a peevish albino Chewbacca residing in ice caves of the Himalayan mountains. Distant cousin of the reclusive Bigfoot, but more likely to make appearances at Disneyland on the Matterhorn bobsled ride.<br />
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<b>Yurt:</b> a glorified tent used by self-proclaimed gypsies and nomads who need to be able to pack up and leave town quickly when the "healing treatments" <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(comprised mostly of mushroom spores and cow poop)</i></span> they are selling backfire and clients experience violent allergic reactions such as believing they can jump out of a fourth story window and fly to Paris naked.<br />
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<b>Yoga:</b> your downward facing dog pissed on my tree pose.<br />
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<b>Zombie apocalypse:</b> belief that zombies <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(a corpse brought back to life through witchcraft, voodoo or Black Friday sale at Walmart)</i></span> will somehow band together to engage in an assault on humanity, feeding on the brains of the living and creating more zombies as they make their way from town to town. Possible metaphorical ties to the downfall of western civilization, voracious consumerism and the Bush administration. Discuss.<br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-71602280651026932922014-11-16T11:19:00.001-08:002014-11-16T13:17:00.613-08:00<b><u>De-mystifying the Jargon Part II</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> and they'll do practically anything you want them to.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~J.D. Salinger</span></div>
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More definitions for those who are seeking guidance during these puzzling days of the New Age:<br />
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<b>Atlantis: </b>a fanciful, utopian ideal, once smiled upon by the gods and blessed with prosperity and the love of all mankind, becomes morally bankrupt and attempts world domination through force (see: <b>Justin Bieber</b>).<br />
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<b>Coffee enemas:</b> highly-addictive practice of injecting espresso up your ass, ostensibly to clean out your large intestine. Side effects include a strong desire to cram biscotti into your rectum and shitting your pants every time you pass a Starbucks.<br />
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<b>Conscious uncoupling: </b>closure counseling for couples who can no longer stand the sight of one another and have enough extra cash lying around to work through a 5-week process of harmoniously slashing the zip ties of marital bondage. Works well with soul mates. Fails drastically with twin flames.<br />
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<b>Crop circles:</b> complex patterns mysteriously appearing in grain fields since the Nixon administration. Theories of their origins include the following:<br />
1. Two drunk British dudes using a plank of wood and some rope have been traveling around the world for forty years, proudly defacing the crops of innocent farmers.<br />
2. Psychic people who have grown bored with gazing into crystal balls are broadcasting their brain waves onto farmlands of the English countryside in an effort to demonstrate cerebral superiority.<br />
3. Vigorous sexual activity of horny hedgehogs produces precise, mathematical designs, especially near Stonehenge where their passionate frolicking creates artful motifs of multi-cultural symbolism.<br />
4. Bigfoot's preferred method of communication.<br />
5. Random wind gusts can create the face of Elvis in less than 45 minutes.<br />
6. Punk-ass extraterrestrial kids are doodling on our walls.<br />
7. Team Satan.<br />
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<b>Crystal skulls:</b> controversial carved quartz artifacts believed to be imbued with mystical powers. Certain legends say that these skulls were created by prankster extraterrestrials (with access to a drill press) visiting planet earth in the pre-Columbian era. When all thirteen skulls have been found and are gathered in the Hyatt Regency conference room, it will be revealed that God is actually a Catskills comedian by the name of Morty who really loves dirty jokes, mindless groupies and one too many vodka martinis.<br />
<b><u><br /></u>Dolphins:</b> heralded as the wise, interdimensional mascot of the New Age and generally thought of as compassionate, smiling, volunteer healers who want nothing more out of life than to help humans fix what ails us. Disturbing current research shows that dolphins are actually the gangsters of the sea, killing and maiming for pleasure when they are not involved in vicious gang-bangs, masturbating with decapitated fish and credit card theft.<br />
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<b>Doomsday preppers:</b> folks who are confident that the world is coming to an end are preparing for the arrival of the Antichrist by stocking up on firearms, duct tape and hard cheeses encased in wax. Oh, and sugar. Don't forget this essential item, because when the shit goes down and you are sequestered with your repulsive family in an underground bunker for a year, you are going to need some goddamn sugar. And nudie mags. And maybe a few gallons of morphine to distract you from the dismal reality of your new life.<br />
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<b>Dream catcher:</b> Native American crafty doodad that catches more dust than dreams. Large, enterprising spiders see it as a ready-made web (with bonus feathers and beads!) and move right in, happy to drop mosquito carcasses into your open mouth as you sleep.<br />
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<b>Family bed:</b> contentious issue also known as co-sleeping. You either believe in keeping the kids in your bed (and sneaking out to the tool shed to have awkward sex bent over earwig-infested bags of mulch) until they graduate from high school or insisting that they sleep in their own rooms (and sneaking in every twenty minutes to make sure they are still breathing). Whichever way you choose, there will be judgment from smug Earth Mothers, shame, fear that you've made the "wrong" choice and misery. Welcome to parenthood!<br />
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<b>Global warming:</b> ongoing cage match between Al Gore and Rush Limbaugh about the validity of climate change. Al states that too many decades of carelessly tooling around in our fossil fuel combustion machines while spraying Aqua Net and Glade into the atmosphere has produced a situation in which we are all slowly cooking to death in our own toxic waste. Rush disagrees and contends that global warming is a hoax manufactured by the Democrats, giving him carte blanche to pollute our environment even further with his own brand of noxious gas.<br />
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<b>GMO:</b> stands for genetically modified organism and is the current axis of evil/Death Star piloted by the Monsanto syndicate. Example: "What the fuck, dude! I knew that tomato was GMO when I cut into it and found a fish head."<br />
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<b>Indigo children:</b> refers to the deep blue color of certain children's energy fields. These are the obnoxiously precocious tykes who aren't afraid of consequences and refuse to follow your "rules", insisting that you think of them as magical superhumans who are encouraged to get away with murder. Indigo children gravitate towards starring roles in television sitcoms and/or tyrannical dictatorship of blended families and small countries.<br />
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<b>Inner child therapy:</b> your damaged, egomaniacal nine year old self is still calling the shots in your adult life as is evidenced by the way you eat like an unsupervised kid at a birthday party, shoplift nail polish from Walmart and fly into a tearful rage when you are even the slightest bit inconvenienced. You are likely to attract a similarly unstable partner who is emotionally frozen in a troubled childhood and unable to make rational decisions. Examples: Billy Bob and Angelina, Courtney and Kurt, Lindsay Lohan and anyone. Seek help now.<br />
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<b>Justin Bieber:</b> gender-confused Hobbit escapes Canadian Shire, visits fancy salon, attempts to take over world with catchy pop tunes, promptly implodes before a live audience. File under cliché.<br />
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<b>Personal growth:</b> the practice of spending most of your time examining what's going horribly wrong in your life and feeling pleasantly relieved when someone else is screwing up worse than you.<br />
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<b>Quinoa:</b> a gateway grain substitute used by trendy-disease-following glutenphobes and those who actually experience explosive diarrhea after ingesting wheat. It has been proven that consuming quinoa leads to experimenting with amaranth and buckwheat, escalates rapidly to bean flour and culminates tragically with the uncontrollable compulsion to score millet from overpriced health food stores and neighborhood bird feeders.<br />
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<b>Soul mate:</b> the Simon to your Garfunkel, the nut to your bolt, the binge to your purge. Basically a kindred spirit who shows up to make your life more interesting while annoying the shit out of you. Does not usually end in homicidal rages or theatrical suicide attempts (see: <b>Twin Flame</b>).<br />
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<b>Space clearing:</b> removing the negative energy imprints left on your home and work environments by ass-clowns, creeps and hostile shrews. You will need to gather a variety of tools to clear the contaminated space in question: bells, chimes, gongs, sage bundles, mirrors, essential oils, sea salt, brightly-colored fabrics, candles, incense and an assortment of crystals and stones. You should dress in loose clothing, wear way too much jewelry and try (at least for today) to be in a pleasant mood when you order the bad vibes to leave your space through the open windows. If you have acquired Jeffrey Dahmer's cardigan or the throw rug from Ted Bundy's house during your serial killer/eBay fascination phase, now would be a good time to let those items go.<br />
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<b>Sweat lodge:</b> a dome-shaped hut made from natural materials for the purpose of ceremonial group steam baths where you will eventually pray for your own death. Even though you join in the Native American ritual with a jovial sense of adventure, you will soon want to claw your way out of the oppressive, airless enclosure. Escape is not possible because there will be an obese white man calling himself Iron Snake wearing only a skimpy purple loincloth blocking the exit and reminding you of the "sacred commitment" you made to the sweat. You will become acutely aware of your level-ten Caucasian claustrophobia, but your sniveling requests to be excused will not be heard above the chanting.<br />
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<b>Tantric sex:</b> the ancient art of forcing yourself to be in the present moment so completely that you experience blissful, luminous sexual ecstasy and orgasms that last for three weeks. This will never actually happen to you because you are thinking about the past-due water bill, the busted hinge on your bathroom door or why the dog keeps humping the couch cushions as you are going through the motions of tedious, obligatory sex with someone who smells like a bean burrito smothered in ass sauce.<br />
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<b>Tofurky: </b>a symbiotic relationship between processed soy and wheat protein formed into a dense loaf and served as a vegetarian alternative to the delectable Thanksgiving turkey the rest of the family is enjoying. Devout vegans will gasp, cringe and perhaps shed distressed tears as the electric carving knife saws into juicy breast meat and crispy-skinned drumsticks and wings are ripped off of the bird. The vegans at your table will choke down their sad little meal of fabricated mock meat while glaring self-righteously at the carnivores. <br />
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<b>Twin flame:</b> best case scenario: "you complete me." Worst case scenario: "I will take great pleasure in murdering you while you sleep and burying your corpse in the desert." Erroneously believed to be the pinnacle of romantic relationships, but only if you enjoy living with an unrelenting, full-length mirror reflecting your broken, ludicrous self back to you every day of your miserable life.<br />
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<b>Vegan:</b> the arrogant buzzkill at your bacon-themed holiday party. This wet blanket will pull out his iPhone to display a ghastly slide show of slaughterhouse nightmares to your cornered guests making them lose all interest in the delicious pork goodness you have painstakingly prepared. Will make sure everyone sees him chomping on the homemade granola he brought with him in a burlap sack, explaining in sanctimonious tones that gorillas don't eat meat, but seem to be surviving just fine.<br />
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<b>Wicca:</b> neo-pagan nature-based religion which has nothing to do with summoning demons into your bedroom <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(unless you are also using Match.com)</span></i>. Those who choose to join a coven should brace themselves for the following:<br />
1. You will cease wearing undergarments and learn to speak elvish.<br />
2. There will be no shaving or waxing of body hair. Plucking eyebrows to resemble a startled wood nymph is encouraged, however.<br />
3. You will immediately invest your life savings into Stevie Nicks-inspired hooded capes and swirly skirts, pentacle tattoos the size of dinner plates, crystal wands and black eyeliner.<br />
4. Once a month naked twirling under the full moon as someone plays an autoharp is mandatory.<br />
5. You agree to engage in lively group discussions about your "moon blood".<br />
6. It will be necessary to modify your uninteresting spelling of mundane words to include the telltale "k". Example: "I ckonstructed a magickal ckauldron for mystickal inckantations."<br />
7. Trading in your PT Cruiser for an enchanted flying broom and ill-tempered black cat is a non-negotiable requirement.<br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-88837706559177015592014-10-11T05:48:00.000-07:002014-10-11T05:48:56.234-07:00<b><u>Of Crystal Skulls and Ouija Boards Part III</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~William Shakespeare</span></div>
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When you are in the psychic business, weird shit happens all the time. I am regularly spooked by myself and others, although I have trained my facial expressions to be calm and neutral. Clients often ask with a wink if I play poker, assuming that the supernatural combination of clairvoyant knowing and inscrutability would provide me with everything I need to win million-dollar tournaments. I suppose I could give it a try, but my aversion to card games has deep roots in early childhood when my insane grandmother, Alice would pull me to her side during Canasta marathons and attempt to teach me the rules from a cloud of cigarette smoke. My nervous attention was drawn more to the ash of her cigarette which would grow to incredible lengths before falling into her lap where it would burn little circles of melted polyester or onto the carpet where the dog would come to lick it up and then sneeze spasmodically. When it became clear that I had no aptitude for cards, she put me to work fetching cocktails and chocolate covered peanuts for everyone at the table.<br />
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Since that time, well-intentioned folks have tried without success to teach me various card games which hold no appeal for me. I have been to Las Vegas a few times and tried my luck at the slot machines, but to no avail. Except for dining at some questionable Mexican restaurants, I'm simply not a gambler.</div>
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Back to the weird shit.</div>
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<b><u>Tales from the crypt</u></b><br />
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I'm rather neutral about the undead. The stories told by Stephen King, Anne Rice and Dean Koontz entertained me in my youth, I was undaunted by the zombie apocalypse craze and never pledged allegiance to either Team Edward or Team Jacob.</div>
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Perhaps it was my nonjudgmental attitude that made my service attractive to fringe dwellers and alternative lifestyle advocates; I truly do not harbor animosity about any group or belief system (of course I laugh at the outrageous antics I hear about in sessions the same way that I laugh at myself when I drop an open carton of eggs in the grocery store or choke on my own spit during a wedding ceremony). Maybe it was just a cosmic <strike>joke</strike> test to see how compassionate and accepting I am, but a few years ago, several new clients called for sessions and through the course of our discussions, revealed themselves to be practicing vampires, werewolves and witches.</div>
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<i>Case #1</i></div>
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Client named Disturbia* begins our telephone session by informing me that she is a vampire/werewolf hybrid and that if I am afraid of those kinds of things, we should not work together. Boom. There it is. Out of the coffin in the first thirty seconds of our call. I assure Disturbia that I can handle whatever it is she wants to talk about and her defensive energy calms immediately. I learn that Disturbia is an assistant manager at an Applebee's restaurant in the Midwest and for the most part, leads a fairly ordinary life during daylight hours. We talk about her challenges with certain employees at work, an upcoming vacation to Disney World and the breast augmentation surgery she is considering. It's all very mundane, but forty minutes into our session, the conversation takes a weird turn when Disturbia tells me that she has been feeling uncontrollable urges during the full moon to prowl around the woods at night hunting and eating small animals. She feels as though she is "becoming" more of a werewolf and is wondering what the future looks like should she pursue this path. I ask about her childhood and she tells me that she was adopted from an orphanage by an older couple who are now both dead (<i>"of natural causes"</i>, she is quick to add). The upshot of our session is that Disturbia is considering leaving her human life behind to join a community of hybrids who roam the backwoods, sleep in caves during the day and hunt forest animals at night. She is attracted to one fellow in particular who is more of a vampire, but she's certain that they can work out their cultural differences in time, and she can sway him towards the way of the werewolf. At this point, though, Disturbia is not quite ready to abandon her familiar routines, so we explore some less-exotic potentials and she seems confident about going ahead with the double D implants. </div>
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<i>Case #2</i><br />
New client by the name of Leandro* arrives for his appointment dressed completely in black, sporting the arrogant goatee and fedora costume that is unfortunately popular these days. When combined with painfully snug jeggings and opaque gothic sunglasses, I realize that I am in for an...interesting...hour. <i>(Larry David once commented that blind people and assholes wear sunglasses inside. Leandro is definitely not blind, so that's a pretty good indicator of what awaits.) </i>When he pulls a comically long black vapor cigarette out of his vest pocket, I draw the line on the pretentious affectations and ask him to refrain during our session. He says nothing, but slowly puts the cigarette back in his pocket and crosses his legs. I can't see his eyes because the stupid glasses are still on, but I get the distinct feeling that Leandro is already unhappy with me and my "rules".<br />
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With an exhausted sigh, the Grim Reaper begins talking about himself and how much he hates this world we live in. It's so fake. It's full of morons and liars. People are afraid of their dark side. The government is a joke and Obama is an animatronic replicant sent from the future to kill us all. When I attempt to speed up his peevish monologue by asking how I can be of help, Leandro discloses that he is the leader of a local vampire community and that he wishes to write a book about the "real vampires" in the world as opposed to "that Twilight shit" that most people believe. Warming to his subject, Leandro begins to share details of the rituals he and his cohorts enjoy, including the consumption of human blood (cutting, not biting, I learn) as part of the nightly group sexual frenzy over which he presides (I imagine sweaty, bloody bodies thrashing around on a black shag rug while Haunted Mansion organ music plays from someone's iPod).<br />
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As he drones on about the cutting and blood-letting protocols (I gather that a feeble human like me can only consume one ounce of pure blood before vomiting, but a <i>Real Vampire</i> such as Leandro has a much higher tolerance and is therefore a Superior Being), I am more than ready to ask him to leave. How the Prince of Darkness found me and why he would seek my counsel is a mystery, but here we are. Sensing the shift in my energy, he stops himself mid-sentence and a silence fills the room. As if on cue, Leandro begins crying and produces a black silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his tears and blow his nose.<br />
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What sort of fuckery is this?<br />
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Through his tears, Leandro confides that the responsibilities of community leadership are weighing heavily on him and that he simply cannot keep up with the <i>demands</i> (no elaboration, thank God) that are being placed on him by the clan. I attempt to shift the energy of the conversation by asking if he is writing about his experiences as a precursor to the book he has envisioned and the tears abruptly stop. And then this:<br />
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Leandro: "Do you think I'm fucking stupid?"<br />
Me: "No...just wondering if you had an outlet for the emotions you're feeling."<br />
Leandro (with withering contempt): "My <i>'outlet'</i> is perfecting the art of black magic and genuine vampirism."<br />
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I now have a mental image of Leandro busying himself during daylight hours rigging up and refining an elaborate torture camp in a dank basement where hapless delivery people, innocent children walking home from school and Jehovah's Witness peddlers are lured to their doom. My next thoughts go something like this:<br />
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1. Get this miscreant out of my living room.<br />
2. Fumigate house.<br />
<strike>3. Establish a more rigid screening process.</strike><br />
3. Change my name and move out of state.<br />
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I have had root canals that were more pleasant than this half hour. I give Leandro my standard speech letting him know that I cannot be of help to him at this time and the upstairs smoke alarm starts screeching. Leandro touches his index finger to his cheek displaying a huge ruby-eyed devil ring while arching an eyebrow as if to say that I should proceed with caution or worse things will happen.<br />
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Oh, it's like <i>that</i>, motherfucker?<br />
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I can clearly see the outline of his cramped gonads through the skin tight jeggings and imagine myself delivering a well-placed kick to the nut sack if it comes down to it. Even a vampire can be temporarily disabled by excruciating pain, and seeing as how I probably outweigh the delicately-framed Leandro by seventy five pounds, I might have an opportunity to actually do some damage and prevent him from polluting the world with his future offspring.<br />
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But before I have a chance to cripple this jackass, there is a loud knock on the front door. It's the brawny neighbor from the adjoining townhouse checking in to see if everything's okay since he can distinctly hear my smoke alarm and is concerned that the entire complex is about to burst into flames.<br />
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Leandro chooses to exit the house after the neighbor, not bothering to say goodbye or wish me a good day. As he speeds away on his flashy black Ninja motorcycle I wonder who's been running Hell while he was here contaminating my couch.<br />
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<i>Case #3</i><br />
I can trace most of my decisions to participate in group events back to a toxic combination of being a compulsive people-pleaser and not having the mature self-confidence to just say no. It's certainly an indicator of mushy boundaries established in childhood when my mother would deliver passive-aggressive emotional punishment if I dared to challenge her or refuse to participate in the things she thought I should be doing. It was not unusual to find her weeping in her room after a disagreement, and when asked what was wrong, to hear that I had <i>"disappointed"</i> her and/or <i>"broken her heart"</i> which was dramatically out of proportion to the situation (not wanting to attend a birthday party for a snotty girl I hated or refusing to join a church group for teens who needed to know more about the sacrifices <i>Our Lord</i> made for the sins we may be thinking of committing in the back seat of someone's car). Then there were her epic silent treatments that would last for days, punctuated only by tears and murmuring to no one in particular, <i>"to whom much is given, much will be expected"</i> while trying to establish eye contact with the framed portrait of Jesus hanging in the dining room.<br />
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What horrific karmic injustice must I have committed to be doing hard time with Carrie's mother as a cellmate?<br />
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Here we go again. I have been invited to a gathering of women for a "Drawing Down the Moon" ceremony which is not fully explained to me initially, nor do I have the presence of mind to ask for details before agreeing to attend. I imagine that it must have something to do with menstrual cycles, and as I am driving to the event, I'm already cooking up an exit strategy and kicking myself for saying yes in the first place.<br />
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I arrive at the house where the moon magic is set to occur and calm my nerves by noticing the attractive landscaping and fountain in the front yard. Nothing bad could happen here! She even has a pretty heart wreath on the door! This is going to be just fine! <i>(Note to self: invest in anxiety meds if group meetings are going to continue.)</i><br />
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The woman who invited me answers the door dressed in a black gown under a purple velvet hooded robe which I pretend to admire. "I got it on Etsy," she chirps as I am ushered into her home lit only by clusters of candles and resembling a Moroccan Pottery Barn. Other women are already here, and right away I see that I am woefully under dressed for this hoodoo extravaganza. Capes and robes in somber colors are worn by all but a few of us, and I observe pentagrams everywhere in the form of tattoos, jewelry and hair ornaments.<br />
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It turns out that these are serious Wicca practitioners and this is a solemn ritual in which the Goddess energy will be invoked through a High Priestess named Fortuna*. Gone are my notions about this being a silly slumber party with everyone telling period jokes and giggling at the penis-shaped ice cubes in our drinks. Nope. There is some legitimate sorcery happening here, and I begin to worry that Fortuna plans to summon a demon with essential oils and candle wax.<br />
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We are asked to remove our shoes and step outside onto the patio where we gather in a circle under the full moon. Most of the women are really into it, and I see that some are already crying, others are holding hands, swaying and om-ing various tones. Fortuna stands in the middle of the circle, raises her arms above her head (I note that she is not wasting any of her hard-earned cash on razors and shaving cream) and begins to invoke mystical entities I've never heard of, but everyone else is nodding and smiling about.<br />
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Some other weird shit gets chanted and repeated, but I'm not paying much attention because of three intense distractions:<br />
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1. The urgent need to pee<br />
2. Next door neighbor looking over the fence and making the devil horn sign with his hands. Moments later, Black Sabbath is blasting from his stereo and a dog begins barking frantically<br />
3. One of the women has taken off her robe and is standing naked in the moonlight while her friend (?) whirls around her waving a huge feather.<br />
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When the ceremony shifts gears into free-form dancing, stripping and singing, I seize the opportunity to slip back into the house to find the bathroom. While sitting on the toilet wondering how long I can hide, I glance around the room and notice a collection of sinister-looking gynecological instruments from the Victorian era displayed on a dusty glass shelf and surmise that no men will ever live here. With death metal blasting, dogs barking and twelve women singing in unison, I understand that I have blundered yet again into a place I don't belong.<br />
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Someone knocks on the bathroom door and I realize I must give up my hiding spot to mingle with the moonlight merrymakers who are now back in the house excitedly babbling about the powerful spirits who were part of tonight's ceremony. One of the women swears she saw an elf by the palm tree and another says that the neighbor's music actually gave her the courage to be naked in front of other women for the first time ever.<br />
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I casually saunter over to the refreshment table and begin chatting with a young woman who shares that this is her first Wiccan moon ceremony after being shunned by her vampire community three weeks ago. As she picks the nuts off of a vegan brownie, she tells me that her name is Thana* which means "death" in vampire clan-speak, but that she is waiting for Fortuna to bless her with her new Wicca name as soon as it comes to her in a dream. I nod and act as though this is all very ordinary while trying not to stare at the nipples of one of the naked women who went a little crazy with the piercing gun.<br />
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The woman who invited me comes over to ask what I thought about the ceremony. I tell her that it seemed to be a powerful experience for most of the women, but that I didn't think it was my cup of tea. She gives me a dreamy smile as I continue stuffing my face with bean dip and shooing the standard-issue black cat off the snack table.<br />
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When Fortuna strikes a large metal gong and announces that we will now be making magical dolls to ward off hexes and curses, I decide to thank the hostess for a lovely evening and take my leave. Nobody seems to care that I am bowing out of the second half of the full moon festivities, and I feel extreme relief as I walk to my car knowing that I escaped being jumped into a witch gang tonight. I am positive that the Daughters of the Night will get along just fine without me.<br />
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<b><u>Session Smidgens</u></b></div>
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~Client believes that all ancient artifacts in Egypt are part of a movie set the aliens left behind after filming a documentary.</div>
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~Client's grandfather eats at Chinese buffet and dies of food poisoning, later communicates with her through the Ouija board about her boyfriends.</div>
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~Client believes Al Roker is the incarnation of Satan and is actually controlling the weather in the United States so he will have something dramatic to report.</div>
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~Client asks if I would babysit her enormous crystal collection at my house while she goes out of town. She instructs that I must talk and <i>sing</i> to the crystals every day, and if at all possible, refrain from scheduling sessions with unhappy people.</div>
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~Client brings new Ouija board to our session for me to "bless", asks that I receive messages and spell out names of spirit guides through the board only to "get it working".<br />
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*Not their real fake names</div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-71456408503082276202014-10-06T06:46:00.001-07:002014-10-06T06:46:43.174-07:00<b><u>Stupid Cupid Part II</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Margaret Atwood</span></div>
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I never fail to be astounded when intelligent people make tragic decisions with their eyes wide open (and plenty of warning against it). "Lisa" is a psych tech at a state mental hospital on the east coast and begins our first telephone session by telling me that she has fallen deeply in love with one of the patients whom, she is convinced, has been misdiagnosed by the system and misunderstood by nearly everyone in his life. Yes, it's true that he is a gang kingpin, responsible for murders, rapes and drug trafficking, but he had such a terrible childhood, it really isn't his fault (and those teardrop tats on his face are a huge turn-on!). She assures me that "George" is <i>different</i> from the other inmates and her heart melts when he brushes against her in the hallway.<br />
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According to Lisa, George is a kind, soft-spoken gentleman who has promised to treat her like his queen once he is released from the psychiatric hospital. They plan their beautiful, carefree life together in bursts of whispered conversation as she takes his vital signs and mentors him in the Basic Living Skills class. He draws flattering pictures of her and woos her with cryptic poetry that she doesn't understand, but feels is a sign of their many lifetimes together as star-crossed lovers.<br />
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Sowing the seeds of her own destruction, Lisa masterminds an elaborate plan for his early release. She is flying high on her adrenalized dreams of idyllic togetherness: cooking wholesome, organic meals for George, reading Shakespearean love sonnets to each other by a roaring fire and riding horses through green meadows.<br />
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Fast-forward to our next session one year later. George is granted early release, Lisa quits her job at the hospital and walks out on her disabled husband and their three teenage kids. They move in to a ramshackle Airstream trailer on a rural property where pit bulls are trained to fight to the death in a dilapidated barn. George resumes his meth habit and thoughtfully delivers a raging case of herpes and a few black eyes to Lisa as thanks for her kindness and loyalty. Since she is now fully aware of the severity of the situation and is living in constant fear, she asks for guidance on how to escape the life she has devised for herself.<br />
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About a week later, I receive an email from Lisa telling me that George was snuffed out by one of the pit bull fight club goons in a drug deal squabble. Relieved to be free of the nightmare she created, Lisa informs me that she has sent her resume out to other psychiatric hospitals and is eager to work with patients again.<br />
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<b><u>Burning Man: one woman’s search for the perfect sperm donor</u></b></div>
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The nature of my business attracts many clients from the fringes of society who tend to not only think outside the box, they are not even remotely aware that there <i>is</i> a box anywhere in the universe. While I am all for creative, intuitive problem solving, the harebrained schemes I often hear about in sessions seem to come from either bad acid trips or extraterrestrial abduction and brainwashing.<br />
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"Sally" is a returning client who has made some big changes in her life. When I first met her, she was a 35 year old psychologist from Newport Beach who seemed to have her shit together despite a stormy, competitive relationship with her mother (just fourteen years older than Sally).<br />
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It has been two years since our last session, and I barely recognize the woman standing at my door. Gone are the J. Crew loafers, pink Izod polo shirt and precise blonde salon cut; Sally now resembles a Godspell cast member/Woodstock survivor with long, ropy dreadlocks, mismatched gypsy fortuneteller clothing and shaggy armpit hair peeking out from her embroidered tank top. Also, she looks to be about twelve months pregnant and I nervously envision this bohemian poser birthing a purple unicorn in a patchouli-scented explosion right here on my couch.<br />
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(Semi-related side note: over the years, people have brought some curious items to sessions including used sex toys, a box of newborn kittens, a stack of legal contracts, cremated remains in a Mason jar, shockingly awful sugarless chocolate "candy", extensive collections of supplements, creams and suppositories, photo albums, artwork, suicide notes, a gallstone the size and color of an avocado pit in a zip-lock bag and a metal crucifix pendant which had mysteriously twisted itself into something resembling a Bavarian pretzel stick.)<br />
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Sally has prepared a PowerPoint presentation about her trip to Burning Man nine months ago, explaining that she would prefer that I see actual images of her adventure so that my intuitive guidance will be crystal clear. Since I was not prepared with a projection screen and laser pointer, we hunch over her tablet to view the spectacle she has cobbled together from hundreds of photos and hours of video footage set to a soundtrack of Weezer and the Dave Matthews Band.<br />
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I will say right up front that I'll never, under any circumstances or coercion, attend Burning Man. As delightful as it all looks in Sally's production, I know that I wilt into a grouchy mess when temperatures climb above seventy degrees. At one hundred and twenty degrees (average daily temperature on "the playa"), my brain stops functioning and I would no doubt expire in the orgy tent under a pile of writhing, Kombucha-swilling strangers. I do not relish the thought of daily sandstorms that will blast the paint off a Winnebago. I appreciate certain types of art, but mimes in wedding dresses and motorized Barcaloungers tooling across the furiously over-baked landscape of the Nevada desert do not enchant or inspire me.<br />
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Sally has not revealed the purpose of our session, so I watch the show and try to imagine the questions that are sure to follow.<br />
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The first images are of Sally arriving at Burning Man, clutching a pink parasol and modeling her suede bikini and some kind of furry caveman boots. She speaks directly to the camera and announces that she has come to this event to find the sperm donor for her as-yet-to-be-conceived child (a young man wearing a top hat, goggles and a g-string steps into the shot and announces that <i>his</i> baby batter is free to anyone who wants it. What a surprise.) and holds up her ovulation chart with the optimal days circled in red and smiley face stickers in the margins.<br />
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The video continues with snippets from the event:<br />
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~Sally opening the door to a porta-potty to reveal a dude in a dress blowing another dude in a horse head mask<br />
~Naked people covered in glitter dancing to trance music on deep-pile shag carpet in a geodesic dome<br />
~Re-birthing tent in which one can experience a kinder, gentler entrance into the world by pushing through a maze of heavily-oiled Slip 'N Slides and being doused with a bucket of flower petals and Tootsie Rolls by a naked woman wearing angel wings at the end of the ordeal.<br />
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At this point in the presentation, Sally explains that her offering to Burning Man is a "Divine Conception Tent" in which specific men (supposedly there was a qualification process) will be allowed to have a shot at impregnating her. What follows is a tag-team progression of guys in absurd costumes who are interviewed briefly on camera before they get down to business discharging their glurky man-sauce into Sally's wanton womb (copulation not shown on camera, thank you Jesus).<br />
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The thirty minute show concludes with Sally straddling a bicycle, wearing what was once a frilly red tutu but is now a grubby, tattered suggestion of a kicky fashion statement. In the background, the burning man is blazing away against the night sky and drunken people are cavorting in a ritual frenzy as she announces with a serene smile that she knows in her heart she is pregnant.<br />
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All of this leads (at last) to the point of our session. Sally wants me to intuit which of the seven dudes she had sex with that week is the father of her baby. I tell her which man I feel it is, and she begins to weep and nod her head....it's the same one she had a dream about after she came home from Burning Man.<br />
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Three weeks later, I receive an email from Sally telling me that she gave birth to a ten pound baby girl. She contacted the fellow who spermatized her and he dropped everything to hitchhike from Idaho and move in with his new little family. She's not sure she can live with his habitual pot smoking, three a.m. Gregorian chanting or spastic colon issues, but the baby seems to like him.<br />
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<b><u>In other session news:</u></b><br />
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~High School teacher marries freshman student with her parents' full consent.<br />
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~Match.com inadvertently unites long-lost brother and sister (not realized until they compare family photos after a month of round-the-clock screwing).<br />
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~Thirtyish woman marries rich old man on his deathbed. He rallies and goes on to live another five horrific years. When the will is read after he finally croaks, she learns that he's left all of his money to the Catholic church.<br />
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~Eighty year old female client gets scammed out of $500,000 by the "Prince of Ghana" whom she meets and falls in love with on Plenty of Fish.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Choices are the hinges of destiny. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">~Edwin Markham</span></div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-75614248912121063392014-10-03T05:50:00.002-07:002014-10-03T05:50:40.805-07:00<b><u>De-mystifying the Mystic</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise, they'll kill you." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Oscar Wilde</span></div>
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It’s been said that if you do something fairly well, you will be expected to do that thing 10,000 times. At the beginning of the process, it doesn’t mean very much since the theory hasn’t actually gelled into a sobering reality. But imagine the astonishment 71-year-old Mick Jagger must feel as he conjures up the illusion of sexual urgency singing "Let's Spend the Night Together" for the zillionth time since 1967. If any of us knew how long something would last, would we still choose to do that thing?<br />
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<b>The life of a psychic/spiritual guide</b><br />
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<u>Perception:</u><br />
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6:00 a.m. Awaken joyfully to the sound of chirping birds in trees. Begin morning meditation while watching a family of deer graze on organic alfalfa sprouts in back yard. Notice rainbow on horizon.<br />
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7:00 a.m. Brisk two-mile walk in ergonomic shoes to stimulate senses, clear mind and prepare for another glorious day of guiding receptive people through challenging-but-manageable emotional situations.<br />
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8:00 a.m. Prepare zen-like breakfast of organic green tea and raw buckwheat porridge. Bask in the glow of good choices and vibrant health.<br />
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9:00 a.m. Welcome first client of the day with warm smile and infinite compassion and patience. Resolve all past, present and future issues in exactly sixty minutes.<br />
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10:00 a.m. Peaceful meditation with saints, angels and ascended masters.<br />
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11:00 a.m. Light lunch of detoxifying smoothie made from local farmer's market ingredients while listening to classical music and envisioning my smiling liver.<br />
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12:00 p.m. Enthusiastically greet second client with open arms and astounding ability to see into her very soul. Bring comfort and light in appropriate amounts for exactly sixty minutes.<br />
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1:00 p.m. Water award-winning succulents in perfectly-landscaped garden. Smile as butterflies come to rest on my shoulders. <br />
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2:00 p.m. Delight in the presence of third and final client of the day. Rejoice together as we enlist the aid of Spirit Guides to locate grandmother's missing silver, long-lost birth parents and soul of departed cat communicating amusing messages.<br />
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3:00-5:00 p.m. Read from ancient biblical scrolls, intuitively connect with helpful Beings from other galaxies, calmly gaze out window while doing sweat-free yoga and ponder the perfection of life.<br />
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6:00 p.m. Welcome husband home from his hard day at work with tasty, nutritious meal prepared with utmost care and finest ingredients. Offer to massage his neck and feet with essential oils as a precursor to an evening of tantric lovemaking and luminous intertwining of our souls.<br />
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10:00 p.m. Catch glimpse of halo in mirror while spritzing face with Pope-blessed distilled rosewater.<br />
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10:30 p.m. Gently enter blissful slumber anticipating dreams of winning Lotto numbers and the perfect gluten-free brownie recipe to share with neighborhood.<br />
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<u>Reality:</u><br />
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4:00 a.m. Awaken to recurring annoyance of sweating through nightgown, urgent need to pee and barking neighborhood dogs. Briefly ponder staying awake to get a jump on daunting mountain of unanswered emails. Decide instead to go back to sleep, but toss and turn as mind churns on how to deal with another bounced check from long-time client who always "forgets" to bring cash to session.<br />
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5:00 a.m. Enough already. Give self a leisurely hour to cruise Internet, snicker at funny cat pictures on Pinterest and become embroiled in ironic Facebook skirmish about positive thinking. Jump over to Amazon to order more books that will languish unread on nightstand for years. Continue ongoing search for plus-sized clothing that doesn't resemble a floral bedspread from the Sears 1986 home collection. Wind up morning shopping spree by purchasing two pairs of shoes and an overpriced purse, all of which will likely need to be returned. Adrenaline now flowing sufficiently to begin work day.<br />
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6:00 a.m. Grudgingly click over to emails to assess damage. Seven messages from website requesting sessions. Twenty three <b>urgent</b> messages from people (clients as well as strangers) in various levels of physical, emotional and imaginary crisis.<br />
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6:05 a.m. Click back to Facebook to see if anyone has joined in on positive thinking scuffle. Remember that last bit of deodorant was used yesterday and click over to Vitacost to stock up on personal care items.<br />
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6:30-7:00 a.m. Force self to reply to emails.<br />
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7:00 a.m. Consider preparing healthy, low-fat breakfast. Decide instead to finish other half of massive chorizo burrito from last night's dinner. Watch part of Lifetime movie about a mother who is struggling with her son's addictions to Internet porn and energy drinks. Check weather channel and feel despondent about rising temperatures.<br />
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8:00 a.m. First telephone session of the day. Try to offer helpful guidance to hysterically-weeping woman as stomach revolts against breakfast burrito. Multiple texts coming through from someone who is wondering why I have not replied to her email from yesterday. Husband yelling at next door dog to "shut the fuck up!" Client asks if she is hearing the ghost of her abusive father. Am tempted to say yes for impressive shock value, but decide to chalk it up to rough neighborhood activities and move on with session.<br />
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9:15 a.m. Rushed shower including inevitable leg-shaving fiasco. Wrestle with uncooperative hair in growing-out phase from 40 years of bangs while sweating in hot bathroom. Compulsively check clock.<br />
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9:50 a.m. Early arrival of morning client. Ignore doorbell while mopping sweat from cleavage. Complain bitterly to self about heat and vow to find housing in a state where temperatures never get above sixty degrees.<br />
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10:00 a.m. - 12:30 p.m. Juggle sessions, phone calls, washing machine repairman, FedEx delivery requiring signature for out-of-town neighbor and addressing bounced check with client and bank.<br />
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12:30- 1:00 p.m. Hurried "lunch" of half a bag of potato chips and two pounds of watermelon. Imagine fat calories being cancelled out by tsunami of melon juice. Just enough time to floss chip debris out of teeth before next client arrives.<br />
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1:00 p.m. Dismal session with inconsolable client who refuses to listen to anything positive and explodes at the suggestion that we continue our discussion on a day that she is feeling more receptive. Session lasts two and a half hours as I explore creative ways of squelching her urge to drive her car into the ocean.<br />
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3:30 p.m. Eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's peanut butter fudge ice cream while watching new episode of Dr. Phil. Convince self that this is an "early dinner." Change into yoga pants that have never seen the inside of a yoga studio and begin dreading the all-too-frequent trip to the grocery store.<br />
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4:30 p.m. Wander through store with absolutely no clue about what to make for husband's dinner. Unsuccessfully avoid running into client in the meat aisle and notice curious look on her face as she assesses the contents of my shopping cart. Apparently someone in my line of work should not be purchasing tampons, frozen pizza or ant spray.<br />
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6:00 p.m. Not thrilled to see husband arrive home in foul mood. Husband not thrilled to see frozen pizza for dinner. With exhaustion levels at an all-time high, we argue about mysterious charges on the phone bill before falling into a heavy silence that lasts for hours.<br />
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9:00 p.m. Retreat to office to futz with scheduling and amuse self with Pinterest photos and articles about weight loss and brain tumors. Ponder possibility that family history of mental illness will take hold of my brain and force me to commit myself to a mental institution.<br />
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10:00 p.m. Lie awake imagining pithy retorts to the ongoing Facebook fracas. Finally fall into a headachy sleep wondering why I enjoy the movie <i>Indecent Proposal</i> so much (just up to the point when Demi Moore is about to ditch Robert Redford and go back to doofus Woody Harrelson. It is impossible to suspend disbelief in the face of such lunacy).<br />
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<u>Stuff I've learned (about myself and others) plus bonus quotes: </u><br />
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1. People only hear what they want to hear and when they're hungry, they barely hear anything at all.<br />
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2. People don’t really want advice; they want to know that everything is going to be okay.</div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Our anxiety does not come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it."<br />~Kahlil Gibran</span></i><br />
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3. People tend to identify with their unhappy stories and forget that they can make new choices to get different results in life (called the "precious golden wound").<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>“Like all angry men, he loved his grievance” ~Anthony Trollope</i></span><br />
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4. The known hell is better than the unknown heaven. </div>
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5. People often fall in love with the potential of what could be rather than seeing situations and people as they truly are.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke." ~Lynda Barry</span></i><br />
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6. Down deep, people already know the truth.</div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable." ~James A. Garfield</span></i><br />
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7. If you fall in love with a bra, it will be discontinued. Guaranteed.<br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-53352092759168346492014-09-30T07:40:00.000-07:002014-09-30T07:40:38.067-07:00<b><u>Dollar Store Douche</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"A good scare is worth more to a person than good advice."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> ~Edgar Watson Howe</span></div>
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Most of the time, it seems that this job was made specifically for me. My fascination/amusement with bizarre human behavior coupled with my compulsive need to make all things right for the people around me led directly to a career in which I hear the outrageous stories and confessions of those who have gotten themselves into a pickle and then search the psychic landscape to find the "fix". It helps that I have developed massive reserves of patience and good humor as well as an understanding that frequently, people don't really want help, they just need someone to listen.<br />
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Sprinkled in with the legitimate concerns of folks struggling their way out of life's emotional sandpits are the incredible situations and questions that seem to defy the science of rational thought.<br />
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<u><b>Go directly to fail: worst ideas ever</b></u><br />
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<i>Drama #1</i><br />
Client and her female roommate engage in three-way sex frolic with a shady stranger they pick up at a downtown San Diego bar. Afterwards, they offer him a ride home, but once he's in the car, he becomes threatening and demands that they take him across the border to Mexico so that he can "do business" with someone named Julio. In a moment of what can only be divine intervention, they manage to ditch this thug at a gas station when they go in for snacks.<br />
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<i>Drama #2</i><br />
Fiftyish married male client brings twenty-something chick he's having an affair with to our session (unannounced) in hopes that I will help him break up with her on the spot. </div>
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<i>Drama #3</i><br />
Common sense takes yet another holiday when middle-aged idiot husband of client decides to add some spice to the old sex routine by hooking up a car battery to metal nipple clamps and jolting himself into a heart attack. Paramedics arriving on the scene seem unfazed as they load yet another jackass onto the gurney.<br />
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<i>Drama #4</i><br />
Forty year old client wants to know which man at the swingers party knocked her up. None of the men were using protection that night, and she really hopes it's not the overweight fellow in the Darth Vader t-shirt.<br />
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<i>Drama #5</i><br />
Florida client's fiancee incurs horrific injuries taking selfie with alligator who blunders into kitchen through the doggie door.<br />
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<i>Drama #6 (a personal tale)</i><br />
Where haircuts are concerned, red wine and enormous sewing scissors should never mix, as my elementary school photos clearly illustrate. Proud of her ability to save a few bucks on things that were better left to the professionals, my mother would get excited about trimming my bangs after a few glasses of wine (poured from a gallon jug over ice) and reach for whatever cutting implement was handy. The terrifying dressmaker shears and a black plastic comb with missing teeth were her go-to barber tools, neither of which could facilitate a decent trim once the wine was working its magic in her brain. When I miraculously survived until middle school, I took control of the situation and began cutting my own hair, leaning over the bathroom sink and washing the evidence down the drain before my mother got home from work. I can't say that the results were significantly better, but at least I felt as though the destiny of my appearance was in my own hands and not shaped by someone else's blurred vision and unrelenting determination that I resemble a mortifying hybrid of Shirley Temple and Beaver Cleaver.<br />
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<u><b>We put the "no" in innovation</b></u><br />
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Somewhere along the line, people started engaging me as a one-woman focus group with the alleged ability to discern the success or failure rate of new products, ideas, businesses and and investment schemes. Some went on to have international success. Here are a few that didn't:<br />
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~Entree and dessert-flavored sex enhancers. Taking the old adage "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach" to a peculiar new place, innovative female client with an oral fixation envisions passionate romps with curious partners who wish to experience a buffet of taste sensations. Her feeling is that once he's gotten a taste of the bacon douche, he will want to come back to dine on the blueberry pie body paint and won't mind wearing a chocolate truffle condom.<br />
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~Foam board with which to hit others (and potentially self) "upside the head with a 2x4". Client imagines lively mock battles in which friends whack one another while viewing football games on t.v. or during rambunctious cocktail parties.<br />
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~Interactive spider farm (like an ant farm but with frightfully aggressive wolf spiders). Purchase price includes six months of live cricket shipments so you can be sure that your precious companions are getting adequate nutrition.<br />
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~Battery-operated "purring" cat carrier. Female client modifies a baby carrier in an effort to keep her elderly, disabled cat with her at all times. Bonus points when client discovers that the vibrating "purr" function can provide sexual stimulation (for her, not the cat) when worn in just the right position.<br />
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Good luck getting <i>that</i> visual out of your head.<br />
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~Disposable-yet-fashionable adult bibs in a plastic carrying case for those who tend to slop tomato sauce and gravy on themselves while dining out.<br />
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~Musical dog leash. No explanation on that one.<br />
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~Female client has a dream in which the Virgin Mary shows her an electric tablecloth which keeps food warm during the meal. Problems arise when the prototypes set fire to the dining room table and people continually trip over the cord. Client speculates that Mary was just messing with her and refuses to attend church after the fifth prototype fails and her husband leaves her for the receptionist at his urologist's office.<br />
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<u><b>Social repulsion</b></u><br />
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I'm a world-class introverted recluse who does <i>not</i> enjoy wedding receptions, drumming circles, barbecues, Bible studies, clambakes or shindigs. I feel anxious at Pampered Chef/Mary Kay/Tupperware parties and make naughty, inappropriate comments in an effort to be the funny person everyone likes. I dread shopping at Costco. Crowds drain me. I'm the person who cheerfully agrees to attend your event and then finds a way to back out of it at the last minute. There. I've said it.<br />
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Against my better judgment, I occasionally consent to engage in group activities, telling myself that I'm turning a new leaf...opening myself up...fully participating in life and all of its glorious festivities.<br />
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And then shit happens.<br />
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<u><i>Ladies who lunch</i></u><br />
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~ Invited to lunch with a client who claims she would like to connect with me as a friend. I arrive at the restaurant about five minutes early, but see that she is already sitting at a booth, eagerly waving to me. As I approach the table, I notice that she has a tape recorder set up and a yellow legal pad with a list of questions that she must have been working on as she waited for me to arrive. She quickly assures me that lunch is on her if she can just ask me "a few questions" while we eat.<br />
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~ Join four other women for lunch at a lovely new restaurant overlooking the ocean. As we wait for one of the women to arrive, we chat pleasantly while drinking iced tea and commenting on the view. It's all very civilized. About fifteen minutes later, "Pam" wobbles in completely drunk, her boozy breath wafting over the table like an incoming fog bank. Nearly falling off the chair as she sits down, Pam frantically signals to the waiter and orders a bottle of wine for herself. She asks if we would like to do some shots before lunch and we decline. The mood at the table is tense as Pam talks loudly about how shitty life at home is with her asshole husband. We all get it. Times are hard. Our lunch progresses with Pam tearfully disintegrating over her tuna salad. She keeps her phone on the table so that she can text various people to tell them what a cocksucker she's married to. We hurry to finish our meals, but Pam is using our gathering as a group therapy session. This is no longer a lunch...it's a hostage situation.<br />
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<i><u>Nightlife nightmares</u></i><br />
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~ After a lively meal and a few Margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant, eight of us make our way to our cars, assessing which of us is most able to drive the rest home (this usually turns out to be me). One of the women in our group thinks she sees a man she dated briefly who stopped returning her calls. There are few things more unsettling than hearing a 65 year old woman holler across a parking lot, “suck my dick, you asswipe!” Any idealistic preconceptions about senior citizen gentility fly right out the window and one is left with a vague sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I think back to my own limited experience with my grandmothers and try to recall a similar scene in which they cut loose in a public place. With the exception of my bipolar (called “manic-depressive” in those days, assuming that a medical exam and diagnosis had actually taken place) grandmother, Alice who was prone to over-the-top theatrical behavior at unpredictable moments, there was nothing much to draw from in terms of relatability. I do not believe that Alice ever called anyone an “asswipe”, or requested that someone pleasure her phantom phallus, but who knows? I only saw her twice a year.<br />
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~ While out of town attending a bachelorette party I couldn't get out of, we pay a visit to a popular local bar called The Caboose, but after three minutes inside, I mentally rename the place Whiskers and Tits. As I slowly suffocate on the stench of cigarettes, piss and desperation, it is obvious that I am out of my element and I begin imagining ways to abandon this putrid purgatory. Until I can come up with a convincing exit strategy, I observe my surroundings:<br />
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1. Hairy, dwarf-height dude with a “Bunghole” t-shirt making the rounds asking women if they would like a mustache ride…and then quoting prices based on attractiveness.<br />
2. Lead singer of 80s cover band botches the lyrics to <i>Beast of Burden</i> and heated argument ensues among those on the dance floor attempting to sing along. Someone hurls her Lemon Drop at the drummer, which does not seem to impede the band’s laborious march through the Rolling Stones catalog of hits.<br />
3. Sixtyish woman wearing a cowboy hat giving a vigorous hand job to a man barely able to keep his eyes open in a shabby vinyl corner booth.<br />
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It seems as though the entire population of the local trailer park had agreed to converge upon The Caboose tonight, and I am the self-conscious interloper completely at odds with my surroundings. I pull out my phone, pretending to text a nonexistent friend and successfully avoid the advances of Mr. Bunghole who is shouting encouragement to the classy dame pleasuring her drowsy date in the corner.<br />
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<b><u>A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma</u></b></div>
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Bewildering questions and statements:<br />
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~ Client who has apparently relinquished all ability to think for herself calling from the produce department of the grocery store: "should I get the red or the green apples? And while I have you on the phone, which brand of tampons is most in harmony with my chakras?"<br />
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~ “There’s a horsefly in your bathroom. I know it’s the ghost of my father because he liked horses and worked for United Airlines.”<br />
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~ "Is it wrong that I keep my mother's ashes in a root beer bottle?"<br />
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~ "I'm worried that my dead father is watching me have sex with my husband."</div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-1254587245599988842014-09-27T06:01:00.001-07:002014-09-27T06:01:41.234-07:00<b><u>The Cowgirl and Mr. Pickle: <i>In which we are presented with far too much information</i> Part II</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“I couldn't possibly have sex with someone with such a slender grasp on grammar!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Russell Brand</span></div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b>With sex issues and bodily functions being the number one topic during sessions, it seems only natural that at some point I would attract clients who work in the adult entertainment industry. Like a giant nooky magnet, the more I talked about sex, the more people wanted to talk about sex with me, and nobody seemed to care that I was not licensed, credentialed, certified or in possession of astounding first-hand knowledge.<br />
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As the demand (?) for guidance on sex-related issues grew, it seemed wise to read up on physiology, disease, anatomy and psychology in order to acquaint myself with the geography in question. I haunted online forums where people were candidly discussing everything from torture bondage to the pros and cons of anal penetration to intercourse with silicone love dolls. No topic was off limits and by the end of my "research", I was up to speed on a variety of things I once thought of as bogus antics: having sex while dressed in furry costumes (called "yiffing"), boinking balloons, cake farts (look it up), people who enjoyed being locked in tight places while wearing a diaper, fecal fantasies and folks who were aroused by amputees.<br />
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Following are a few of the noteworthy sex workers I've spoken with over the years:<br />
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Kitty Hart* (star of <i>Saturday Night Beaver</i> and <i>Romancing the Bone)</i><br />
Main focus of medical intuitive sessions centers around the physical damage she fears she's incurring with preposterous sex positions such as "the piledriver" or anal sex with a certain well-endowed cast member's member. Also needs to address the possibility of leaving porn to explore an edgy new "intimacy therapy" called Orgasmic Mediation. Kitty explains that for $15,000 she can become a certified coach, helping paying customers learn how to precisely stroke a clitoris (while wearing surgical gloves) for fifteen minutes in a classroom setting. She is quick to add that this is a <i>therapeutic</i> practice but she's worried that people will recognize her from her porn films and won't take her seriously.<br />
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Lucy Lewd aka Lucy Lipps* (phone sex operator)<br />
Lucy prefers to be called an "adult conversation specialist" and asks me to "tune in" to why she repeatedly agrees to meet her phone clients in person (believing that <b>each one</b> is her potential soul mate), but then being disappointed when they all turn out to be married and/or skeezy. She tells me about setting up a special Amazon wish list so her clients can send her gifts and then desperately falling in love with anyone who does. When I suggest that she take down her wish list to avoid <i>some</i> of the drama, she becomes an eight year old girl who really, <i>really</i> wants that pony and I'm the stingy mom who won't give it to her (it seems that we have unwittingly begun role playing at this point). As we wrap up our session, Lucy wants me to analyze a recurring dream in which she has three-way phone sex with George Bush and Jesus.<br />
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Ginger Wood* (freelance Vegas escort)<br />
Telephone session begins with Ginger requesting past life information, wanting to know if she has been a prostitute previously because she's "super good at it." We discuss centuries worth of sexual exploits and mishaps, much to her obvious delight. Ginger asks if her dead Grandfather will be angry if she writes a book about the information discovered in our session, but before we can delve into that compelling topic, her noon client arrives early. As we are ending our call, Ginger provides one of the most excellent doorknob confessions of all time by asking, "do you think I became a prostitute because I was molested by my art teacher in middle school?"<br />
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Rocky Wilder* (Miami male stripper/gay escort)<br />
Rocky has issues. Deeply embedded issues that are not going to be resolved during a one hour telephone consultation. For starters, 28 year old Rocky wants confirmation about George Clooney being his biological father. There is absolutely no evidence of this except that Rocky's mother owns all of George's movies on DVD which she plays on a continuous loop and only smiles mysteriously whenever Rocky asks her who his birth father is. I ask if he resembles anyone in the Clooney clan and Rocky says that he really looks more like Eddie Murphy but his mother owns none of Eddie's movies, so (according to Rocky's logic) it can't be him. Since I cannot confirm that either of these men are his biological father, we move on to other pressing concerns such as Rocky's addiction to plastic surgery and if his upcoming testicle implant procedure will deliver the results he wants.<br />
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But the icing on the cake (see previous cake fart reference) is when a male sex therapist from Sedona contacts me for a series of readings so that he can get some fresh perspective on his life and career path. His "professional" name is Himeros* which he borrowed from the mythological Greek god of sexual desire. I learn that his birth name is Emmet (hence the need for an alias) and that he was born in the year of the rabbit which he considered to be a sign from the gods that he was meant to pursue a career as a <i>"Sexual Healer". </i>I can actually hear the emphatic italics over the phone as he makes certain that I understand he has been doing <i>"Serious Work"</i> with the women who seek him out.<br />
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You know. Just in case I was thinking he was a man-whore who was banging anyone with a credit card.<br />
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Himeros is not particularly concerned with psychic forecasts or messages from his spirit guides, but prefers to use our session time to bounce business ideas around and see what I (as a member of his target demographic) respond to.<br />
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Most of our first conversation is taken up by a well-rehearsed explanation of how his service works while proudly reporting that he has trained himself to shout out his intentions in the throes of orgasm, and that it is perfectly acceptable for him to manifest a new BMW or a cabin in the Berkshires this way. His sexual partners, I learn, are quite eager to assist him with his manifestation magic while getting pounded doggy-style on an organic straw bale bed. It is good to note, however, that from a therapy standpoint, Himeros prefers the woman to be on top in "reverse cowgirl" position since he feels that it <i>empowers</i> her to simultaneously be in control and not have to look at the face of her sexual partner.<br />
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As Himeros continues to share his philosophies with me, I become acutely aware that he is a world-class manipulator who has tapped into a gold mine by selling his services to lonely, well-to-do women of a certain age and calling it <i>Sexual Wizardry </i>(cheesy tagline: <i>casting spells of love</i>). A one hour "copulation encounter" costs $500, more if you want Himeros to escort you to a restaurant or night club before or after your sex session (you drive AND pay for all meals, cocktails and incidentals because it <i>empowers </i>you and is part of the "therapy").<br />
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When I make the mistake of asking if he is willing to minister to women who are morbidly obese, disfigured or disabled, Himeros becomes hostile, stating that he prefers to use his magical healing gifts on women who are alluring enough to go forward from his "treatment" to attract a loving, attentive partner. Thankfully, since this is a telephone session, Himeros cannot see the expression on my face, nor is he aware that I am furiously scribbling notes about his arrogant remarks. As he continues his defensive harangue, I wonder if this is a prank being pulled by a diabolical friend. But sadly, as our session continues, I come to understand that this is the real deal, and Himeros is living in a universe all his own in which I am but a visitor, being paid to help him reorganize his practice in order to attract new <strike>victims</strike> clientele.</div>
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I feel like a mafia consigliere; the Tom Hagen to Vito and Michael Corleone, assisting this emotional sinkhole with his rotten strategies and promotions of fictitious sexual sorcery. I decide to pull the plug on Himeros' original request for once a week sessions which is all the incentive he needs to turn his charm on me by asking if I would like to <i>trade</i> with him for ongoing spiritual support and business consultations. In exchange, he says, I am welcome to come to Sedona and experience the bewitching gift of his sexual prowess. Himeros is certain that I would benefit from a little Sexual Wizardry ("<i>what woman wouldn't"</i>, he chortles) and I consider telling him that I would sooner juggle rabid weasels in front of Caesar's Palace than partake of his overworked clam hammer.<br />
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I choose, instead to keep it professional and say that it feels as though I cannot be of any further assistance to him at this time. Himeros is disappointed and asks if I know of any other <i><b>female</b></i> intuitives who are taking on new clients. I give him the toll-free number to California Psychics and wish him well on his honey wagon hayride.<br />
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*Not their real fake names.</div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-64884663277512392272014-09-24T06:44:00.000-07:002014-09-24T06:52:49.455-07:00<b><u>Walk-ins Welcome</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"All a skeptic is is someone who hasn't had an experience yet." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Jason Hawes</span></div>
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When I first began conducting sessions, I imagined that I would be doing a LOT of spooky stuff involving disgruntled demons in basements, extraterrestrial abductions and visits to cemeteries in the middle of the night. Turns out that some of those situations do come up on occasion, but not nearly as often as the mundane issues surrounding relationships, money and health. My initial fantasies of being a famous ghost hunter starring in her own wildly popular television show were dashed a long time ago mostly because of two significant issues:<br />
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1. Fear of being possessed by hobgoblins looking to hitch a ride around town in my body<br />
2. Horrible on-camera presence due to the unfortunate tendency for stress-related blotchy redness on my face and throat and appearing to be roughly the size of a silverback gorilla.<br />
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There have been some fascinating paranormal events and eerie encounters over the past ten years. Of the times I have been contacted to deal with unruly entities roaming around various houses and places of business, about ninety percent of situations turn out to be nothing more than electromagnetic fields (EMF), air in the pipes, faulty construction, noisy neighbors and/or overactive imaginations. But the other ten percent truly defy all logical explanation.<br />
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<b><u>Explained</u></b><br />
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Case #1~<br />
<i>Evidence:</i> Client is awakened frequently between 3:00-3:30 a.m. by loud thudding sound coming from undetermined location in the house. Assuming it is a restless ghoul meandering the halls, she lies awake for hours with the light on so that no entity can assault her in bed (it's a common belief that ghosts only wreak havoc in the dark and mostly in bedrooms. Turn on the lights while brandishing a Bible and they flee like cockroaches, supposedly).<br />
<i>Debunk: </i>Morbidly<i> </i>obese Labradoodle named Scotty prefers early morning hours to lick his balls on the wooden floor of the dining room, his hefty tail thumping in such a way as to resemble footsteps.<br />
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Case #2~<br />
<i>Evidence: </i>Client arrives for session dressed in Civil War-era attire. She has been watching <i>Somewhere in Time</i> repeatedly for the past month and has convinced herself that, <u>with my help</u>, she can transport herself back to 1863 to meet up with a certain Lieutenant in South Carolina with whom she feels she has unfinished karmic/romantic business. When I question her about her expectations, she tearfully divulges that she had a reading with another psychic who told her that she needed to reunite with her One True Love...who exists inconveniently in another time/place/dimension.<br />
<i>Debunk:</i> Never having launched anyone through an interdimensional wormhole before (but thoroughly impressed by her costume), I go along with her request and do some light hypnosis and past life regression as she reclines on the couch. At the end of the hour, she sits up looking at first disoriented and then shocked at the realization that she is still in 21st century California. As she stands up to leave, she realizes that she is wearing shoes from Macy's which (<i>of course!</i>) makes time travel back to the 1800s impossible.<br />
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Case #3~<br />
<i>Evidence:</i> Client living in rural area sheepishly reports that she has had two recent encounters with extraterrestrials while walking her dog at midnight. According to her, the aliens have somehow altered her libido which was pretty much dead before the first event but now has come roaring back to life, much to her elderly husband's surprise. She notes that there are strange markings on her inner thighs and she is craving fried okra which must surely mean she has been probed and/or implanted with foreign DNA by creatures from another galaxy.<br />
<i>Debunk:</i> Paranoid doomsday-prepper neighbor has invested in a flying drone camera which he uses to survey neighborhood activities after dark. Drone has an exceptionally bright light and hovers over moving objects as it transmits images to neighbor's computer. No explanation for libido surge or desire for fried foods, but "markings" on inner thighs turn out to be mosquito bites.<br />
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Case #4~<br />
<i>Evidence:</i> Client is convinced that her house is being haunted by a malicious spirit. She details highly unusual events such as coming into her kitchen first thing in the morning to discover all of the cabinet doors standing open. Another morning she finds that the stove burners are on and the refrigerator door is ajar. Personal belongings, food and cash are going missing even though she lives alone. Her first panicky thought is that her dead father is terrorizing her as payback for not coming to see him before he died (she can smell cigarette smoke in the house occasionally and <i>for sure</i> that must be his ghostly calling card). She wants to know if an exorcism should be performed on the house and if that will prevent dear old Dad from murdering her in her sleep.<br />
<i>Debunk:</i> Neighbor observes young man sneaking into basement window late one night. Turns out that methy homeless dude has been systematically ransacking various houses in the area for months. Police take care of the exorcism for free.<br />
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<b><u>Unexplained</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b><i>
Case #1~</i><br />
I receive a message from a very distressed woman asking me to call her back as soon as possible. I return her call that evening and she asks me why I keep calling her cell phone and hanging up. I have never met this woman before and have been in sessions all day, so I assure her that I was not playing games with her phone. She asks me my name and I tell her. She asks if I know her sister "Sandy", and I tell her that I have many clients, and am not sure if I know her or not.<br />
<br />
We do this wary back-and-forth thing for another few minutes and just as I'm getting annoyed and ready to be done with the conversation, she tells me that the cell phone number my land line is calling repeatedly belongs to her sister who passed away the day before from unknown causes.<br />
<br />
Now I'm interested.<br />
<br />
I tell her that I provide sessions of intuitive guidance and frequently speak with people about their loved ones who have passed over. We make an appointment for a session the next day. That night, I dream that a young woman is sitting across the table from me showing me hypodermic needles and looking very sad. Even though clients frequently ask me to alert them if I should dream about them, I don't usually receive information this way. My dreams are more along the lines of me being the only waitress in a restaurant full of angry people yelling their orders at me, but I don't have any way to write it all down. Plus I'm wearing the hideous yellow satin dress I made for my senior prom and the zipper has busted out of the back so my underwear is showing.<br />
<br />
"Ann" arrives for her session looking very skeptical, as though I planned this elaborate charade in order to capture a new client against her will. She shows me the cell phone in question and indeed, my land line was busy making frenzied calls to Sandy's phone the day after her death. I show her my appointment book and she sees that I was in sessions the entire time, but is still not understanding why all of this is happening. I tell Ann about my dream, but she shakes her head and says that her sister was a preschool teacher who loved life and never did drugs of any kind.<br />
<br />
Not knowing where to go from there, we chat for a bit longer and Ann leaves, promising to call me when the results from the autopsy and toxicology report come in. A few weeks later, Ann sends me an email detailing the findings of her sister's death due to heroin overdose.<br />
<br />
There really is no explanation for that bizarre series of events, and I wonder frequently why any of it was necessary if the reason for Sandy's death would have come out eventually, anyway.<br />
<br />
About a year after this incident, I have another dream in which Sandy tells me adamantly that Ann <i>needs</i> to meet one of my male clients. I try like hell to shake the dream and ignore the request because it sounds so ridiculous to cheerfully call both of these people out of the blue and try to explain that a dead sister is pulling matchmaking strings from the spirit world.<br />
<br />
I finally worked up the courage to introduce them to one another at a local coffee shop by the name of "Sandy's" (seemed appropriate given the circumstances). They got married about six months later.<br />
<br />
Case #2~<br />
As a rule, most people like to know what to expect. There is something comforting in the unchanging routine of our daily lives as we pretend that we have everything under tight control. If we want excitement, we leave our safe environments to bungee jump off of skyscrapers or have affairs with married Senators or sell off all of our belongings, grow some dreadlocks and join Greenpeace in the ongoing war with the Japanese whaling industry.<br />
<br />
When spine-tingling events begin happening on our home turf, we tend to get a bit skittish.<br />
<br />
In the <i>very</i> early days of conducting sessions (back when I was still entertaining fantasies about starring in my own television show), a new client asks if I would come to her condo to investigate the paranormal events which have been taking place for over a year. She reports that she and her mother are being greatly affected by the "dark energy" and negative forces she feels are conspiring against them. My first thought is that I am about to assume the role of the hapless priest who gets swarmed by flies in <i>The Amityville Horror</i>. Should I pack some holy water and a rosary? Should I bring some assistance or at the very least, a camera crew? Nah. Let's just step into a stranger's haunted house with absolutely zero knowledge of how to deal with demonic forces and see what happens!<br />
<br />
I am greeted at the door by a disheveled woman who looks like she's been on a rough two-week cocaine bender. I instantly regret my jaunty, self-assured agreement to take part in this nightmare, and for a brief moment, I consider pretending to be a Jehovah's Witness, force-feeding copies of The Watchtower to people unlucky enough to be home during the day.<br />
<br />
"Rosalee" invites me in to a living room which looks about as welcoming as Saddam Hussein's spider hole and smells like a nauseating stew of old bacon grease, Vanilla Febreeze and dirty ass cracks. I am introduced to a depressed Pit Bull named Mother Teresa curled up on a plaid couch. She barely raises her head to acknowledge me; the look in her sunken eyes conveying that there is no longer any hope for her, but I should leave while I still can, and by the way, what the fuck do I think I'm going to accomplish here?<br />
<br />
From a shadowy corner of the room a voice growls, "I...know...you..." and my insides turn to liquid at the notion that the apocalypse has officially begun. It turns out to be Rosalee's ancient mother hunched over in a wicker rocking chair looking a lot like the Crypt Keeper but by now I am so spooked, her appearance is not as amusing to me as it normally would be.<br />
<br />
Rosalee and I converse for a moment and she tells me about the back bedroom where strange things happen. Indeed, the atmosphere in the condo is one of sustained menace and I feel as though I am being suffocated by a tar-soaked blanket as we walk down the short hallway to the room in question. Every so often, Rosalee's mother eerily intones from the rocking chair, "I...know...you...." which adds plenty of extra spice to the ordeal.<br />
<br />
<u>Shit gets real in the Doom Room:</u><br />
<br />
~Greeted by stench of rotting meat upon entering room. As we stand just inside the door, the curtains begin to blow around, even though the window is closed.<br />
~Rosalee dissolves into tears which does nothing for the growing sense of panic I'm feeling. As I reach out to hold her hand, the closet door begins to rattle as though someone is trying to get out. Rosalee bolts from the room and I resist the urge to do the same.<br />
~Now that it's just me and Satan's little helper squaring off, the energy in the room seems to stand still and observe me, speculating about my intentions (the DVR in my mind pulls up the scene in <i>Ghostbusters</i> when Gozer orders the guys to "choose the form of the Destructor" and Ray thinks of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man). From the other room, I hear Mother Crypt Keeper continuing her declaration, "I...know...you..." and I envision myself forcefully stuffing a filthy sock in her mouth and sealing it with duct tape. Now where did that thought come from? I do have a mischievous streak, but binding and gagging senile old ladies is not usually at the top of my to-do list. <br />
~I look to the left and catch a reflection of myself in a floor-length mirror. I stifle a scream, not because of anything paranormal, but because my sweater makes me look like a pastel walrus. As I'm making a vow to throw the sweater away if I get home, I see a reflection of a man standing behind me and nearly lose my shit right there on the spot. Whirling around with heart pounding, of course there is nothing there. When I turn back to the mirror the man is gone.<br />
~Not knowing what else to do, I close my eyes and call in every angel and saint I can think of in a loud, trembling voice. Seconds later, the mirror crashes to the floor and I hear Rosalee shriek from the other room.<br />
~My heart is hammering louder and faster than I've ever experienced, but I manage to hear the name "Donald" in my right ear. Assuming that this is the name of the ghostly dude in the mirror, I shout his name into the room, commanding him to leave. Moments later, I receive a firm push on my right shoulder and that's it for me. Twyla Tharp would have been impressed by the new interpretive dance steps I invent in my terrified haste to exit the room. I let Rosalee know that this thing is way out of my league and offer to help her find someone else to take care of this stubborn spook.<br />
~Mother Teresa looks up from the couch with an expression that says, "see? I told you it was fucked up" and we all jump as the bedroom door slams shut.<br />
~Quite a bit older and unfortunately wiser, I never offer to do house clearings of this nature again. When I call Rosalee a week later to check in with her, the recording tells me that the number is out of order.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Shakespeare <i>Hamlet Act 1</i></span></span></div>
<br />Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-45420487716484259762014-09-21T06:57:00.000-07:002014-09-21T06:57:09.892-07:00<b><u>Stupid Cupid Part I</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"The desire to get married, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">which - I regret to say, I believe is basic and primal in women - </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">is followed almost immediately by an equally basic and primal urge - </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">which is to be single again." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Nora Ephron</span><br />
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The second most popular topic of sessions is romantic relationships: current partnerships with impossible problems, past unions that won't go away and dreamy, idealized hopes of future couplings with a mystical creature called "The One". In heterosexual women born between the years 1955 and 1995, there can be a wistful tendency towards Disneyfication where the belief in Prince Charming reigns supreme. A startling number of women sincerely believe that when the "Right Man" arrives, there will be peace in the valley at last. All of their problems will evaporate, they will lose that last 20-50 pounds, their judgmental mothers will suddenly express approval, the perfect job will manifest and they can <i>finally</i> put their decorating talents to use in the beautiful house he will provide for her.<br />
<br />
Gloria Steinem is vomiting her breakfast into the kitchen sink right now.<br />
<br />
Following are some memorable moments from past sessions:<br />
<br />
<u>Marital Theatrics</u><br />
Even though I know better, in a weak moment I agree to conduct a session with a married couple. Our discussion begins with polite banter and gentle questions about the future. They are sitting next to one another on the couch, holding hands and nodding as each takes a turn speaking. I feel confident that the three of us can work together as a team to clear some old energy and forge a bright, shiny path into the promising future. Thirty minutes later, the stress fractures become apparent when she refers to him as a man-child who will never be able to support her. Also, she is sickened by the skid marks he leaves in his underwear which she feels is passive-aggressive behavior since she does his laundry. The mood in the room takes a turn and now feels like the ghastly moment right before an overloaded septic system backs up into the house. He pops up from the couch as though he is spring-loaded, and with an enraged "fuck you AND your mother" stomps out of the house, leaving her whimpering on the couch. "See?" she says, wiping away tears with the sleeve of her sweater. "This is what I deal with every day! I should have left him five years ago when he banged that eHarmony whore!"<br />
<br />
Which leads us to:<br />
<br />
<i>Husband Shenanigans</i><br />
~While wife is out of town, husband has daily in-home massages from people he finds on Craigslist who suggest that "happy endings" can be part of the "healing therapy".<br />
~Wife on extensive business trip comes home to find her belongings boxed up in the garage. Husband has initiated divorce proceedings and also ordered a Russian bride who will arrive next week.<br />
~Wife discovers once-healthy joint savings account is now down to $67. When pressed for answers, husband admits to purchase of car and condo for the woman with whom he's been having an affair for two years. "I don't want a divorce" he insists. "She's helping me to find out who I really am so I can be a better husband to <i>you</i>."<br />
~Husband opens secret credit card accounts to pay for phone sex and dating site addictions. When wife discovers evidence, he claims that these companies are falsely charging him for services he has never used.<br />
~Husband arrested for masturbating in the Walmart parking lot during his lunch hour.<br />
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<br />
<u>It Ain't Over Till It's Over</u><br />
Stalkers. Cheaters. Pedophiles. Dog haters. Thieves. Compulsive liars. Gold diggers. Addicts. Extreme hoarders. Ex cons. Current cons. Psychopaths. Abusers. Violent control freaks.<br />
<br />
You might like to think that if one of these demons blundered into your life, you would swiftly and with firm resolve show them the door. You are far too self confident to allow such scoundrels to drain you of your emotional and physical resources! You deserve better!<br />
<br />
But you would be surprised by how challenging it is for many people to eradicate the villains from their lives.<br />
<br />
~Extremely anxious female client "Jane" arrives for her session already in tears.<br />
Me: "How are you?"<br />
Jane: "Why? What have you heard? What are your Guides telling you?"<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(side note: one of the occupational hazards of being an Intuitive is that you must choose your words and facial expressions with extreme care. Clear your throat or raise your eyebrow at the wrong point in a session and the client will lose her shit thinking that a prognosis of death, dismemberment or financial ruin is forthcoming.)</span></i><br />
As our conversation progresses, I learn that Jane's husband of thirty years wants to explore his new-found interest in any (or better yet, <b>all</b>) of the following adventures: wife swapping, making sex tapes to share with friends, casual sex with other men and/or regular visits to a bondage sex club in San Francisco. Up until three weeks ago, this man was as lifeless and stodgy as an overcooked rump roast, spending most of his time migrating from the couch to the bedroom to the computer chair to the refrigerator and back to the couch again, barely speaking except to insult whatever she made for dinner. Jane and I had spoken several times over the past few years as she worked up the courage to leave the marriage and create some small measure of happiness in her life.<br />
<br />
But suddenly this man has sprung to life like a voracious sex-starved zombie and is making radical changes everywhere. Jane comes home from a weekend away to find all of his old clothes stuffed into trash bags heading for Goodwill. He discovered Just For Men hair dye and has gone from gray to an alarming jet black, including his eyebrows and newly-sculpted pubic hair (which he gleefully pulls down his velour sweat pants to reveal). Somehow, he has stumbled upon the thrill of online shopping and UPS deliveries begin arriving daily with clothes, shoes, bedding, porn DVDs, vibrating butt plugs, scented candles and testosterone replacement supplements and creams.<br />
<br />
As Jane struggles to understand this astounding turn of events, her husband makes it clear that he is going to have some fun whether or not she approves or participates. "And by the way", he casually tosses into the conversation as he's shaving his chest hair and arm pits, "if you <i>are</i> interested in swinging with a few other couples from the golf club, you'd better work on losing some of that weight you've packed on, Porky."<br />
<br />
Now at this point in the story, you might be thinking that this is all the incentive Jane needs to pack her bags and leave the madness. After all, who in her right mind would stay seated calmly in her deck chair as the Titanic begins its slow and inevitable decent to the bottom of the Atlantic?<br />
<br />
But humans are a mysterious bunch and there's no accounting for personal choices. Jane chooses to stay and suffer through the next two years of her husband's gruesome metamorphosis. She comes for sessions about every six months, each time asking hopefully if her husband might die so the nightmare that is her life can end. I gently remind her that she is able to leave the situation anytime, but the fear of doing so is so huge that she dissolves into tears and changes the subject. At our last session, Jane dejectedly reports that she has taken to watching <i>Sleeping With the Enemy</i> frequently and is using it as a training film of sorts as she contemplates faking her own death and moving to Iowa to start a new life.<br />
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<u>Some Day My Prince Will Come</u><br />
The Majickal Interwebs. Where one can find anything their heart desires with nothing more than a few specific keywords and a willingness to hand over bank and credit card information to total strangers. Over the years, I have been asked hundreds of times to intuit the efficacy of various dating websites in hopes that the client can cut down on some of the time spent combing the Internet for "The One". The most absurd outcomes have arisen with three websites in particular:<br />
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<b>Plenty of Fish</b>~ female client begins dating clean-cut man with a full time job and his own house. Everything seems to be progressing well except for the fact that this guy is never available to get together on the weekends. When she does a little online investigation, she finds that he is also active on Craigslist as Gregory, the golden-shower-loving werewolf.<br />
<b>Christian Mingle</b>~ male client begins promising relationship with lovely, age-appropriate woman in another state. They spend hours on the phone getting to know one another, and even though Jesus probably wouldn't approve, they indulge in some raunchy phone sex as part of the courting ritual. Problems begin to surface when he suggests that they meet in person to see if what they have is the "real deal". She puts him off with lame excuses for months but continues to engage in telephone trysts with him several times a week. As his suspicions grow, he hires a private investigator to dig up information about his beloved. Turns out "she" is a "he" (with an unusually feminine voice, apparently) using photos of another woman he found online (called"catfishing").<br />
<b>Farmers Only</b> (tagline: <i>City folks just don't get it</i>)~female client in Kansas finds cowboy/farmer of her dreams in Texas. The usual phone/email/text communication goes on for a few months until they decide to meet in person. He pays for her to fly to Texas and puts her up in one of the guest rooms in his immaculate, professionally-decorated home. A vague sense of unease is creeping up on her, but she can't seem to put a finger on what's not feeling right about this guy. They spend several days together and he pays for everything. He's a gentleman. He compliments her on her hair and shoes. He makes no sexual advances towards her until the third day of her visit when they attend a tractor pull at the fairgrounds. He certainly knows a lot of sweaty cowboys in tight Wranglers! And did he just <i>giggle</i> when one of them made a joke about greasing the gears? As they watch the main event from the bleachers, he places her hand on his raging erection, never taking his eyes off of the men in the arena. It all becomes crystal clear in a flash: his keen interest in accessorizing her outfits each day, his half-joking suggestion that they get pedicures before lunch, his crying jag as they watch <i>Bridges of Madison County</i>, all of which seemed charming at first but now is a deafening announcement of his true orientation.<br />
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"Honesty is the key to a relationship. If you can fake that, you're in."</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Richard Jeni</span></div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-54940622006261565392014-09-19T06:15:00.002-07:002014-09-19T06:15:50.307-07:00<b><u>Of Crystal Skulls and Ouija Boards Part II</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Woody Allen</span></div>
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I am one of those people who like to think that I am an astute student of life, quickly learning Valuable Lessons from my mistakes, and never making the same error in judgment twice. But then there are times when I do not realize the gravity of the situation until I am waist-deep in some social event with no way out. Case in point: my visit to Mt. Shasta to attend a woo-woo workshop in which I will potentially learn how to heal myself and others with crystals, chimes and chanting.<br />
<br />
What's that you say? I should have known that this would be trouble when I first heard of it? That the mere mention of chimes and chanting should have tipped me off? That Mt. Shasta is a well-known haven for New Age seekers and Birkenstock-wearing kooks? Oh, what the hell. What's the worst that can happen?<br />
<br />
Try to ignore that ominous music you are hearing right now.<br />
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The city of Mt. Shasta is located at the base of Mount Shasta which is the second highest volcano in the United States. Historically, villages and cities positioned around volcanoes do not tend to fare very well when the lava gods awaken and decide to render mayhem and destruction upon all living things. Even if the volcano has been inactive for centuries, there is an unsettled sense of needing to be on alert while in its presence...like tip-toeing around a cantankerous giant troll who appears to be napping at the moment, but is guaranteed to be in an <i>extremely</i> foul mood when he awakens. Damn trolls.<br />
<br />
I am attending a three-day workshop being held in a sweltering sweat box disguised as a hotel conference room with eleven other menopausal women (project your own judgment here). Not that being in some phase of the menopause process is a requirement to participate, but fortunately for storytelling/comedy purposes, that's how it worked out. If you haven't noticed yet, the universe has a very saucy sense of humor.<br />
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The first day of the workshop begins with the unavoidable and detestable (to me) custom of going around the circle introducing ourselves. For an introvert, this part of the process is a jaw-clenching exercise in endurance, and even though I am supposed to be listening with rapt attention to what the others are saying, internally I am stewing about what <i>I</i> am going to say. I recall attending another gathering of spiritually-minded women a few years ago, and as we made our introductions which included speaking briefly about what we did for a living, one of the women began weeping. When asked what was wrong, she launched into a sobbing diatribe about how sad it was that women could only identify themselves by what they do or where they work and that she did not wish to be labeled in that way. She gathered her belongings and marched out of the coffee shop where we had met that day, leaving the rest of us sitting in stunned silence. That was the first and last meeting of that particular group, and an awkward situation that always comes to mind during every circle introduction ritual in which I find myself participating.<br />
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The Shasta workshop introductions prove to be less emotional, but more fascinating as I note the disproportionate percentage of attendees who have chosen to ditch their Christian birth names in favor of colorful new titles:<br />
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*Rainbow Tree Frog divorced her husband of 30 years to oversee an organic mushroom farm with her lesbian lover in Northern California.<br />
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*Favilla Dragonstone, lesbian lover of Rainbow Tree Frog, organic fungus farmer and recent graduate of Wicca school in Oregon.<br />
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*Lady Morgana makes her living reading the soles of people's feet (she proudly announces that she is willing to be paid in goat cheese or rabbit pelts if any of us are open to trade).<br />
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*Aynjelle (pronounced Angel, but spelled in a way that makes me think she was being paid by the letter), a tiny woman with a gigantic butterfly tattoo covering her chest and upper arms claiming to be the reincarnation of a wood elf.<br />
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*Fallopia, a self-taught mystical healer of the female reproductive system, specializing in infertility issues and sexual dysfunction in men and women.<br />
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*Wounded Wolf practices aromatherapy out of a yurt in Idaho.<br />
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*Jupiter, a mixed-media artist who renamed herself after the largest planet in the solar system in an effort to make peace with her weight.<br />
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By comparison, the rest of us have mundane names and professions, and I avoid outing myself as a "psychic" lest I be pressed into service by any of the women seeking guidance and/or predictions during lunch breaks (an occupational hazard I learned about the hard way).<br />
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<u>Day 1: hit the ground running</u><br />
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Now that the compelling introductions are behind us, it's time to get down to business. "Patsy" is a no-nonsense facilitator determined to pack as much information into our limited time as possible, and so the rambling lecture begins. We learn about ancient Egyptians, extraterrestrials, Atlantis and crystal domes. A rousing discussion ensues as many of the women feel called to share stories about their personal encounters with alien life forms (my own twisted sense of humor nudges at me to make snarky comments about my parents being from another solar system, but after the chilly reception to that sort of playful banter in Sedona, I decide to keep my jokes to myself). Patsy pulls us back to the task at hand by suggesting that we take turns singing solos so that she can assess our "vibrational healing abilities".<br />
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This is where my blood runs absolutely cold. Nowhere in the syllabus was there any mention of singing! I can chant in a group all day long, but warbling solos is <i>not</i> what I am here to do. My heart begins to pound, my mouth goes dry and I feel my hands and feet tingling...sure signs of an impending faint. Can I hide in the bathroom for this exercise? Can I convincingly fake the sudden onset of situational laryngitis? Is it close enough to lunch time to be able to avoid it altogether?<br />
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Several eager women raise their hands to volunteer and I relax a bit. These mid-life overachievers are ready to get into the meat of this thing, and I'm still thinking that I can wiggle out of my turn if we can just move the clock closer to break time. But instead of choosing from the willing live wires, Patsy zeroes in on me and asks if I would like to lead the exercise.<br />
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Dear sweet baby Jesus mother Mary God in heaven Lord Vishnu help me now! Let lightning strike the building. Let a fire alarm go off in the room. Let someone (besides me) vomit, shit her pants, have a heart attack or create some other distraction so I can wake up from this nightmare.<br />
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None of that happens, of course, and it appears that at the undignified age of 51 years old, I am going to serenade a group of ridiculously-named women in a room that must be baking at eighty degrees by now. Patsy gives me a short mantra to sing, and so I close my eyes and wish for death. When that doesn't happen, I sing the words (eyes tightly closed, voice trembling, sweat cascading through my cleavage and down my back) three times in some tune that comes to me between the urge to flee and the feeling that I might dramatically collapse. I finish the mantra and open my eyes. The room is completely silent and Patsy has tears streaming down her round face. What happened? Did she receive a text with terrible news about a family member? Was my performance so horrendous that she is going to have to kick me out of the workshop and refund my money?<br />
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I gather that unintentionally, I hit a combination of notes that resonated with a deep well of emotion, and I am immediately catapulted to the top of the class. I hear someone half-jokingly whisper "teacher's pet" and I am right back in high school, reminded that I have never been able to blend in to any group or situation anywhere. The minute I open my mouth, it is glaringly apparent that there is something "different" about me which tends to make people do one of two things: try to get away from me as quickly as possible or glom on to me as though I am in possession of the last lifeboat off of a sinking ship.<br />
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The day continues with everyone having a turn to sing as I sit back and enjoy the giddy relief of being done. Assessments are made, more information is disseminated about healing with sound and vibration, and we end the day with Patsy informing us that tomorrow, we are going to start class bright and early by conducting healing sessions on each other, so we should all get a good night's rest.<br />
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Easier said than done. Apparently, the energy in Mount Shasta is such that visitors unaccustomed to the vibrations coming from the volcano masquerading as an innocent mountain generally do not sleep well. When I do manage to doze off, my dreams are disturbing and intense. I am awakened at 5:00 a.m. by what sounds like twenty enthusiastic gorillas doing Zumba in the room above me. It's going to be a long day.<br />
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<u>Day 2: reality is relative</u><br />
<u><br /></u>Memorable moments:<br />
~Paired with Aynjelle the wood elf for first practice session of the day. Try not to snicker as she clangs a chime next to my ear while chanting "heal, Suzanne!" At first, I think that she is directing me to send healing thoughts to someone named Suzanne, but then I realize that she has mistaken my name. When I gently tell her that my name is Susette, her eyes well up with tears and she runs out of the room.<br />
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~Re-paired with Jupiter. Attempt to create soothing sounds with castanets while humming a nondescript tune. The treatment table is far too small for Jupiter (imagine trying to balance a tennis ball on a popsicle stick) and she continually shifts from side to side, nearly rolling off twice. Resist urge to suggest that we escape this thing and go out for ice cream.<br />
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~Learn that Lady Morgana has a crystal skull named Candace which she uses as a ventriloquist dummy to speak to the woman on her treatment table. Candace is balanced on the <strike>victim's</strike> patient's stomach area, supposedly conveying information and messages as Lady Morgana sporadically toodles notes on a flute.<br />
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What the fuck is this all about?<br />
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~After lunch, we gather in a circle and sing tones to a quartz crystal bowl positioned on the floor in the middle of the circle. At some point, to everyone's surprise, the bowl shatters and we fall silent, looking to Patsy for guidance on this startling development. All she can say is that the bowl cost $250 and that we should consider making a group field trip to the local crystal store where everyone can chip in a donation towards a new bowl.<br />
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~Consensus is that we should have a pot luck dinner followed by a Wicca ceremony tonight. Favilla Dragonstone will lead the pagan gala on the shore of Lake Siskiyou where we will all learn who our animal spirit guides are and offer energy to the extraterrestrial beings living inside Mount Shasta. I send up a silent prayer that this "ceremony" will not awaken any irritable trolls or curious aliens. After hearing how many of the workshop participants have been abducted and probed against their will, I feel we are at something of a disadvantage as far as good luck is concerned.<br />
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~Pot luck food inspired by Satan's catering company:<br />
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1.Hawaiian pizza abomination with discolored pineapple and soy "ham"<br />
2.Gas station guacamole and stale corn chips<br />
3.The culinary Hindenburg of a tuna casserole in a brownish sauce (side note: wheat germ, it turns out, can't be shoehorned into just anything)<br />
4.Fruit salad that tastes like a scented candle (I learn later that essential oils and a package of strawberry sugar-free jello are the magic ingredients)<br />
5.Vegan brownies (dry and bland) and gluten-free pound cake (disturbing sand-like texture) from the local grocery store. Certainly the most edible of all the offerings.<br />
6.Wine. Lots and lots of wine.<br />
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~Wicca ceremony proves to be an exercise in endurance. Favilla has overindulged in red wine and is slurring her invocations and long-winded "blessings". I learn that my spirit animal is the skunk because I have terrible boundary issues. At this point, I can only nod and agree, seeing that I am standing knee-deep in murky lake water holding hands with sweaty, drunk women as mosquitoes drain me of my blood supply.<br />
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<u>Day 3: tore up from the floor up</u><br />
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More memorable moments:<br />
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Wounded Wolf practices her newly-learned techniques on me as I lay on the treatment table, bloated and gassy from the previous night's "meal", the waistband of my jeans slowly strangling me around the midsection. I steal glances at the clock on the wall, praying for the session to be over (FYI: sound healing does not affect intestinal gas) and resisting the urge to scratch at the hundreds of itchy bites all over my body. Peace treaties have been hammered out in less time.<br />
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It is decided that we will make a trip to one of the many local crystal shops to check out the merchandise. I am hesitant to join this junket because Patsy is still dropping hints about how <i>meaningful</i> it would be if we could all contribute to the purchase of a new crystal bowl to replace the one we demolished during the previous day's exercise. A few of the women glance at me, and I imagine them thinking that my personal and particular vibration (the one that brought Patsy to tears on the first day of our workshop) is responsible for the damage and I should be the one to make reparation.<br />
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We arrive at the crystal shop and are greeted by the musical stylings of Yanni being piped through an ancient speaker system. I am reminded of my parents' love affair with all things Radio Shack back in the seventies and have a strong flashback of myself sitting alone in the so-called rumpus room of the house where we lived when I was in high school, listening to hours of Elton John, Fleetwood Mac and Heart on a crappy, cheap-ass record player as I pored over photos in the school yearbook of boys who would never like me. Even though I knew the odds were not in my favor, I prayed for a miraculous intervention from the popularity gods while mentally willing the phone to ring.<br />
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The women go their separate ways in the shop, each looking for something specific: Lady Morgana is interested in finding another crystal skull so that Candace has a friend to converse with in idle hours. Aynjelle (still not speaking to me after our debacle on the treatment table the day before) needs a new pendulum and dowsing rods since her former partner sold most of her belongings on eBay when she was out of town for a week. Rainbow Tree Frog is determined to find a good deal on polished quartz pieces to bury amongst the mushrooms. My main goal is to stay as far away from Patsy as possible just in case she finds a replacement bowl and starts pressing for donations.<br />
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As I am perusing the gigantic amethyst geodes in the back room and sweating through my blouse, I hear a commotion in the main part of the store and go out to see what has happened. It appears that Fallopia has fainted near the Tarot card section and everyone is gathered around her, fanning her with books and asking each other if they should call 911. The jaded (rock humor) clerk behind the counter tells us not to bother; that the last time someone passed out in the store, it took twenty minutes for the paramedics to arrive and grudgingly administer treatment. I gather from her weary tone that fainting is a common occurrence here and that there is no need to panic.<br />
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Fallopia does recover and goes on to purchase the deck of Tarot cards she was looking at when she lost consciousness, believing that it is a sign from the universe to take these cards home and give readings to her sexually dysfunctional clientele.<br />
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Ever the opportunist, I use the distraction to slip out of the shop in order to avoid Patsy's crystal bowl purchase. I sit on a bench in the sweltering heat and count the men with pony tails passing by. It is a staggeringly high number.<br />
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Back in the conference room, we wrap up our workshop by once again sitting in the dreaded circle and practicing our intuitive skills by "reading" each other's energy. We are told that it's fine to provide guidance or to channel messages from invisible entities if we feel it's appropriate. Patsy puts on a CD of chanting monks and we all stare at each other for ten minutes until Favilla steps up to the plate with a message from Aynjelle's animal guide (an extremely chatty rhinoceros) about needing to make better choices when it comes to bosses and romantic partners. Aynjelle and several other women are crying by the end of the mini reading thanks to the talkative rhino who struck some chords of truth with our group.<br />
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Jupiter announces that she has a message from one of her spirit guides about my weight and that I should stop eating so much when I am stressed out. I certainly don't disagree with the assessment, but if we are correlating body weight with planet size, Pluto being the smallest (astrophysicist-types may now begin debate about whether or not Pluto is an actual planet) and Jupiter being the largest, I could perhaps be classified as a smaller, curvier Neptune or a 2XL Earth. As she drones on about my food choices, I feel my face flushing and my heart beginning to pound. Jupiter outweighs me by a buck fifty at least, but somehow feels qualified to lecture me about potato chips and ice cream. The herculean effort it takes to <i>not</i> say what I'm thinking creates a massive headache and a renewed vow to avoid any and all workshops in the future.<br />
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*Not their real fake names<br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-50726681219960549892014-09-17T06:18:00.000-07:002014-09-17T06:21:57.756-07:00<b><u>Wizards Don't Need Computers Part I</u></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHSqgVOk_TZs2HspU9KlMwO0GPLB-JeEC9gaYH_ub-ai3Mo0tM9978PmUHad5z8Ou_crUNdkm9vEQJjpymQe_fTNGeKxZ2t53hf1xBQu1CpjD7Dpdx65ZeIPXLS-l4NUpkZmdVU62InEv/s1600/crystal+ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHSqgVOk_TZs2HspU9KlMwO0GPLB-JeEC9gaYH_ub-ai3Mo0tM9978PmUHad5z8Ou_crUNdkm9vEQJjpymQe_fTNGeKxZ2t53hf1xBQu1CpjD7Dpdx65ZeIPXLS-l4NUpkZmdVU62InEv/s1600/crystal+ball.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></a></div>
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"I warn you, if you bore me, I shall take my revenge."</div>
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~J.R.R. Tolkien</div>
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<br /><br />I generally do not accept invitations to attend group activities. Maybe it's a mild case of social anxiety disorder or simply an aversion to participating in gang religious ceremonies brought on by too many childhood years spent immersed in Catholic church rituals. <br /><br />My mother was a big fan of Sunday mass, and usually wept during communion and certain organ solos. My dad had understood long ago that church was mandatory weekly (more often during Lent) duty, and volunteered to be one of the guys who passed the offering baskets so that he had an excuse to be away from my tearful mother who would wear her sunglasses indoors to hide her puffy eyes and smudged mascara. The basket guys were responsible for counting up all of the money collected, so he was able to hide out in the back office with the other husband defectors for most of the service every Sunday. It was my job to sit on the hard wooden pew next to my mother and try not to melt into a pool of mortification as she sniffled and sang hymns in a weepy vibrato, drawing glances from others around us. I do believe that my dad felt badly about ditching me to shoulder the burden of my mother's religious fervor, so every Sunday after church was over, we would go for ice cream. All of my anxiety and embarrassment were immediately soothed by a double dip of mint chocolate chip, consumed right there in the cool sanctuary of Baskin-Robbins. My dad would always get one scoop of rainbow sherbet in a cup, and even though we never discussed the recurring church drama, somehow it was understood that this was the payoff for the emotional heavy lifting we had to do on Sundays. Being on a perpetual diet and fearing that somehow, the delicious, sugary fat in the ice cream would magically leap from the freezer and attach itself to her hips, my mother refused to cross the threshold of Baskin-Robbins, preferring to sit in the car and watch us through the window as we enjoyed our refreshment.<br /><br />Semi-related side note: my parents were fond of collecting dogs in hilariously mismatched pairs such as a runt Yorkshire Terrier with a skin condition and a comically overweight German Shepherd, throwing them together and then not understanding why there was canine drama around the food bowl and sleeping arrangements. Long after I had left the house, they finally adopted Lhasa Apso puppies from the same litter and things settled down considerably. (By the way, don't ask what happened to all those other clashing pairs of dogs they assembled over the years. There never was a believable explanation for how/why one team would disappear and the next comedy duo would arrive.) It was this last pair of dogs that brought out the disturbingly over-protective and nurturing side of my parents that their children never experienced. On one visit, I witnessed an apparently well-rehearsed routine in which my dad would hold both dogs on his lap while my mother fed them strawberry ice cream from a baby spoon. As if this was not bad enough, she went into high-pitched baby talk, asking if the dogs "loved 'ikeems' in their tummies". Sweet Jesus. Who are these people?<br /><br />Every spiritual gathering since then is somehow a variation on the original theme. Someone is droning on about God. Someone is crying. Someone wants to collect money. And I try to come in to close, personal contact with mint chocolate chip ice cream as soon as humanly possible.<br /><br />A few years ago, I was invited to attend a group meditation in which a mystic named "Jonathan" would go into a trance, calling in angels and various ascended masters to answer personal questions from the audience. Jonathan was something of a local celebrity at the time and had an impressive following of middle-aged women who swarmed around him wherever he went and jockeyed for positions in the front row of his meditation events. <br /><br />The night I attend, my friend and I arrive about 15 minutes before the ceremony is scheduled to begin, but the regulars are way ahead of us and no folding chairs are available. A metal bench is dragged in from another room to accommodate us, and we are relegated to the back row where the view is not optimal, but still affords me the ability to witness the spectacle.<br /><br />There are about 60 of us packed into an uncomfortably warm room, all women with the exception of two flamboyantly gay men wearing Lycra bicycle shorts and leg warmers. At the appointed hour, Jonathan wafts into the room clad in a white caftan with many strands of beads around his neck. His hair is long and loose around his shoulders and I catch a glimpse of Roman sandals beneath his gown. My first thought is that Jonathan has just come from a New Testament costume shindig, but nobody else seems amused by his apparel, so I keep my observations to myself.<br /><br />A hush falls over the room as Jonathan takes his place on the small stage and graces us with an ethereal smile. The women who have scored front-row seats are looking up at him with wide eyes and high expectations. One woman in particular is already dabbing away tears with something that looks like a dishrag while her busty friend in an extremely low-cut blouse is taking pictures of Jonathan with her cell phone.<br /><br />Jonathan welcomes us and then promptly gets down to business by closing his eyes and entering into a trance. As he sways from side to side, he begins to invoke an exceedingly long and alphabetical list of angels and archangels, saints and entities. My mind starts to wander as I shift on the bench in this unventilated room: am I the only one finding the caftan and sandals absurd? Did I remember to lock the door when I left the house? What is that terrible stench (steamed broccoli? unkempt vagina?) emanating from the woman sitting in front of me? Do I hear someone snoring already?<br /><br />My attention is drawn back to Jonathan as I notice what appears to be a sizable erection blossoming beneath his man muumuu (this being my first time attending the meditation, Jonathan's obvious arousal and lack of undergarments may be a perfectly commonplace, weekly occurrence and something that the devotees are entirely accustomed to seeing). I look around the room to see if anyone besides me is noticing that Sergeant Stiffy has arrived on the scene, but with the exception of the gay fellows who are nudging one another and tittering, almost everyone else has their eyes tightly closed as the spirits are summoned.<br /><br />I am barely able to contain my giggles as I imagine Jonathan's erection as a fleshy dowsing rod, pointing to the lucky lady who will get to ascend the stairway to heaven with him in the back seat of his Nissan Pathfinder. I immediately feel guilty for having such lurid thoughts during what is meant to be a sacred gathering of spiritual seekers. Then it's back to staring at the front of his caftan again and wondering what could possibly happen next as he nears the end of the list of angels to be called forth into this room of admirers. <br /><br />Anti-climatically (!), Jonathan and his boner sit down as soon as the twelve minute invocation ends. As the women open their eyes, hands shoot up in the air with questions for the angels/Jonathan to answer. We hear inquiries about dead cats, missing jewelry, cheating husbands and a raging yeast infection which is resistant to all western medical treatment (that explains the stench). Someone wants to know if the angels can tell her when to purchase a new car. Someone else wants to know if her parrot is the reincarnation of her mother. One of the front row women asks if she can get pregnant during menopause. Jonathan replies to all the questions, and then noticing that an hour has passed, stands up and announces that the angels are finished talking for the night. As he steps down from the stage, the women closest to him reach out to touch his caftan and his hand. I notice that the erection has subsided during the question and answer period, but that a few of the women are following Jonathan out of the room as though they are being led by some invisible force. The rest of us exit through a different door, passing by the "donation center" (a wobbly card table with an angel cookie jar open to receive checks and cash) as we leave the stifling room and spill out into the parking lot. Walking to my car, I see Jonathan speeding away with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and two of the front row women in his vehicle. <br /><br />There is not enough ice cream in North America to subdue the icky feeling I have at this moment.</div>
Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-48606479243384069282014-09-15T07:38:00.003-07:002014-09-15T07:39:53.575-07:00<b><u>The Cowgirl and Mr. Pickle: <i>In which we are presented with far too much information</i> Part I</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"My reaction to porn films is as follows: After the first ten minutes, I want to go home and screw. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">After the first 20 minutes, I never want to screw again as long as I live." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Erica Jong, Playboy Magazine, September 1975</span><br />
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Prior to entering my career of providing intuitive guidance, my job history reads like a short list of haphazard forays all leading to dreary dead ends:</div>
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<b>The restaurant years:</b> snarky-but-lovable waitress (cocktails and food), inadequate prep cook, unfit banquet manager, clueless bakery manager, reluctant server at a dinner theater</div>
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<b>The administrative years:</b> unqualified secretary to the County Clerk, laggard event coordinator, ill-equipped manager of medical offices<br />
<b>The lost three months:</b> misguided employment with a house cleaning service. Don't ask.</div>
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<b>The fuck-working-for-other-people years:</b> transcriber, pet/house sitter, crafter and baker</div>
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In thirteen years of conducting sessions, I have never been asked to list my qualifications, proudly point to a framed diploma on the wall or speak about courses I've graduated. Nobody appears to be concerned with my history, but I often find ways to shoehorn in the anecdote about my near-death experience as a child which altered the way my brain functions. I guess I offer this as some sort of explanation/mystical credential for how I know things.</div>
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When I first started giving readings, I felt as though I was fumbling around in a dark room, tripping over furniture while looking for doorways. All that was really clear was that people had questions, and by using the Remote Viewing technique, I could come up with answers. I bristled at the word "prediction" and corrected people on the spot, insisting that it was more of a <i>forecast</i> based on the way energy was moving for them at the moment. As time went on and these forecasts proved to be accurate, my client base grew so large, I joked that half the county had been to my house to cry on my couch. It wasn't unusual for me to have sessions with all three members of a love triangle without any of them knowing the others had spoken to me.</div>
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And there were a LOT of triangles.</div>
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Little did I know that this linear question and answer dance would soon work its way into heavy therapy sessions in which I was advising people on every topic imaginable. Up to that point, the only experience I'd had with counseling was tuning in to Dr. Ruth's <i>Sexually Speaking</i> radio show in the eighties and the one and only marriage counseling session my then-husband and I attended in which an exhausted therapist spoke with us for a few minutes, then turned to him and told him that we should divorce. As soon as possible.</div>
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The subjects that come up in my sessions most frequently are sex and bodily functions. On any given day, I am likely to spend at least a few hours discussing vaginal discharge, erectile dysfunction, best positions for conception, how to give oral sex to someone with a gigantic penis, the best way to have a secret affair with someone else's spouse, and nipple sensitivity. There are no psychic predictions during these excruciatingly frank consultations, and there are many days when I wonder how and when I morphed myself into an amateur sex therapist. Is there some kind of award for keeping a straight face during outrageously disturbing discussions? If so, I must be in the running for it by now.</div>
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For your reading pleasure, here are a few riveting highlights from past sessions:</div>
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~Seventy year old woman comes to our session with an impressive dildo collection in a Nike gym bag. Her favorite appliance is the hefty green vibrator she has named "Mr. Pickle", but she would like me to intuit which of these gadgets is "most in harmony with her aura" <i>(bonus points when I manage to make it through the consultation and recommendations without actually handling any of the devices).</i></div>
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~Married male in the throes of an honest-to-God midlife crisis gives in to his compulsion to have an affair with a saucy Internet "friend" who happens to be a crack cocaine addict. After being cautioned against such risky behavior, he goes ahead and does it anyway. When panic sets in immediately following the encounter, he rushes home to soak his penis in a beer stein full of Listerine to "kill the germs".</div>
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~Same male decides to throw caution to the wind and continue hazardous escapades, this time inviting a male friend of the crack addict on board for a three-way. While it satisfied a secret desire to engage in uninhibited sex with a dude, his backside was sore and throbbing for a week (since the stakes were significantly higher this time, he decides to douche his rectal cavity with diluted chlorine bleach). Dejected comment at our next session: "It really wasn't anything like <i>Brokeback Mountain</i> at all."</div>
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~Fortyish woman comes to session wearing floral leggings and a tee shirt which announces, "It's only kinky the first time!". About ten minutes in to our conversation, she pulls a can of beer out of her purse, apologizing for not bringing one for me. When I ask her to abstain during our session, she becomes agitated and gets right to the point which is wanting guidance about having sexual liaisons with her Standard Poodle (whose name, inexplicably, is Peter Marshall) and an economy-sized jar of peanut butter. Her questions are not so much in the vein of morality, ethics or common sense, but how she is ever going to be able to have sex with a <b>man</b> again after this. Also, she wants to know if Peter Marshall was her husband in some other lifetime because of the way he gazes lovingly into her eyes and really seems to care about her feelings.</div>
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You can't make this shit up, folks.</div>
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~Long-time client whose marriage has been on the rocks for several years reports that she has jumped into an affair with the brawny FedEx man who makes deliveries to the medical office where she works. At first it's all fun flirtation and meaningful glances, but the situation takes a salacious turn when he invites her to explore the back of his delivery truck one afternoon and they wind up screwing between some tall cardboard boxes and a wooden crate. Now that a precedent has been set, they begin a series of rendezvous at various points on his delivery route (which, she admits, is a fantastic turn-on to have rough and hurried encounters bent over a box in the back of an airless delivery vehicle in the August heat) and she has invested a significant amount of money in crotchless lingerie and short skirts in order to accommodate their hasty liaisons. Her request for guidance is not about the future of her marriage, but how many other women the FedEx guy is boinking on his route because, honestly, he's just <i>really good</i> at speedy sex which means (in her mind) that he must be getting a LOT of practice. She begins stalking him on the days he doesn't make deliveries to the office and becomes obsessed with his whereabouts which is severely impacting her performance at work (she is questioned by her boss repeatedly about why she is ordering so many unnecessary office and medical supplies). Pen poised over notebook, she pleads with me to "tune in" to see if I can come up with the names of the other bitches she's sure he must be nailing during office hours. I gently remind her that this is not the purpose of a session and she springs into action pulling twenty dollar bills out of her wallet and arranging them on the table, hoping that she will hit the magic number and I'll begin spewing information like a telepathic slot machine.</div>
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More-common-than-you'd-think complaints:</b> discovering husband's pubic hair in the keyboard of the laptop while looking up recipes on the Internet. Trouble finding quiet places to masturbate at work. Having a hard time saving up enough money for that vaginal rejuvenation surgery everyone's talking about. Husband's penis is the size of a thumb. Wife hates morning sex (and are these inconveniences grounds for divorce or at the very least, an affair?). Husband only wants to do it doggy-style and/or in the ass. More than one woman winds up needing surgery to repair extensive damage to her back door. Horrific vaginal odors coming from co-workers sharing cubicles. After a bout of furious lovemaking, husband/boyfriend/casual hookup collapses and dies. Alarming addiction to coffee enemas.</div>
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<b>Perplexing questions:</b> "Why do I fantasize about Prince Charles when I'm having sex with my boyfriend?" "Will my wife find out that I got a hand job from my secretary?" From both a man and a woman in unrelated sessions: "does masturbating during <i>Keeping Up With The Kardashians</i> mean I'm gay?" "Is Oprah Winfrey gay?" "Is it wrong to put a tracking device on my husband's car?" "Can I really go blind from masturbation?" "How can I get Keanu Reeves to notice me?" "Is it true that the FDA is going to approve a birth control pill that also helps you lose weight?" "Why do I become aroused by the smell of garlic?"</div>
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"Oh, I've heard everything. I'm going out to get some popcorn and pink lemonade. I've just seen a three-ring circus."</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~Cary Grant in <i>The Awful Truth</i> 1937</span><br />
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-25194479910611903912014-09-13T07:08:00.000-07:002014-09-17T06:28:06.608-07:00<b><u>Doorknob Confessions</u></b><br />
<b>Part I</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"There's a reason it's called 'girls gone wild' and not 'women gone wild'. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">When girls go wild, they show their tits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">When women go wild, they kill men and drown their kids in a tub."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> ~Louis C.K.</span></div>
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<b><i>A doorknob confession is a term used by some clinicians/therapists to define the phenomena of the client divulging something incredibly important or critical in the last few minutes of a therapy session.</i></b><br />
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I stumbled upon a sobering realization recently. It appears that I am prone to making myself the indispensable font of all wisdom/take-charge manager of any and all crisis/hand-holder extraordinaire/provider of comfort and inspiration, and in doing so, encouraging people to become dependent upon me, which I promptly find a way to judge as "needy" and resent the hell out of. This has become a sticky tangle of codependency which stinks up the room and leaves a trail of broken relationships as far as the eye can see.<br />
<br />After a few years of immersing myself this job, I decided that I could no longer socialize because there was no lunch, dinner, party (Tupperware, Mary Kay, cocktail, etc.) or gathering that did not involve someone cornering me and picking my brain for input or reassurance. My tendency towards erratic (read: nonexistent) boundaries created the perfect storm for me to hide in my house and screen all calls. Fun fact: I have not spontaneously answered the phone in ten years.<br /><br />Recluse level: Hobbit<br /><br /></div>
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Sample schedule for any given day: <br /><br /><b>6:00 a.m. email</b> at least one person up my ass about a court date/finding mother’s ring/husband’s whereabouts/stomach pain/smell of pot coming from son's room/fear of upcoming blind date with an Internet acquaintance/ominous dream/alarming rash, lump or bowel movement.</div>
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<br /><b>7:00 a.m. breakfast</b> often interrupted by phone call from client freaking out because I did not respond to email (see above).</div>
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<br /><b>9:30 a.m. work day begins</b> client 30 minutes early for her 10:00 a.m. appointment because she needs to use the bathroom to poop/change tampon/floss teeth and/or get a few extra minutes of time because she has a LOT of issues to discuss today (one of the hazards of working from home rather than an office is that people see the situation as more of a casual meeting between friends, and the "friend" with the house probably doesn't mind at all if people just show up whenever they feel like it). I have put sticky notes on the door indicating that I am in another session, I have ignored the doorbell until our session time, I have opened the door a crack and asked that they come back at our scheduled time. Sometimes it works, but often, I am greeted by someone who is already crying, panicking and/or on the verge of wetting her pants and the urgency is difficult to ignore.<br /></div>
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Of course I am at my fresh and optimistic best for the first sessions of the day. Once the bathroom desperation is behind us, we visit the usual Stations of the Cross: relationships ("where is my soul mate/how can I get rid of the guy I thought was my soul mate?"), health ("does this look like cancer to you?"), family ("I dreamed that I killed my mother. What do you think that means?") and money ("I need to win the Lotto to pay rent. Can you give me the numbers?").<br /><br /><b>12:00 p.m. the day continues</b> some snippets of pressing issues to be addressed:<br />~Food (?) Addictions - entire tub of Cool Whip consumed every night at 11:00 p.m., toilet paper, chalk, raw meat, packets of Sweet-n-Low, potting soil, red wine and Gummy Bears (just the green ones).<br />~Frequently-heard past life concerns - client believes she was either Cleopatra, Joan of Arc or Mary Magdalene. Fear of choking/flying/drowning/bridges/worms/vomiting and what lifetime are these from/is demonic father figure involved?<br />~Haunted spaces and/or interactions with ghosts - disembodied spirits who show up around 3:00 a.m. wanting to have sex, flickering lights, televisions which spontaneously change channels, coffee makers percolating on their own schedule, missing keys, slamming doors and strange smells.<br />~Doorknob Confessions (startling revelations in the last few minutes of a session) - "Could all of this have anything to do with the fact that I was molested by a priest when I was nine years old?" "I think I’ve decided to get that sex change surgery after all." "Maybe it's a good time to tell my daughter who her real father is." "I think I'm in love with my uncle."<br />~Beauty Consultations - <br />Client: “Do you think this eye shadow works for me?”<br />Me: “What color is it?”<br />Client: “It’s called smoky plum parfait.”<br />Her eyelids look like two fairly serious subdural hematomas to me, but I had been reviewing autopsy photos earlier that week, so what the hell did I know? Me: “Well, it’s really more of an evening look, I think” (this from a woman whose ham-handed experiments with eyeliner make her look as though she’s peering out from a charred log).<br /><br />Same client wants a read on whether or not she should schedule an appointment for anal bleaching. I am struck by the absurdity of her desire to darken her eyelids and lighten her asshole. <br /><br /><b>3:00 p.m. trying to end the day</b> find a type-written list of questions and $50 stuck to the front door with masking tape (this Internet-resistant client thoughtfully includes an envelope in which to place my replies and mentions that she "will just keep driving by the house to look for the envelope on the door"). Four back-to-back telephone messages from someone calling in a panic from the candle room of a Catholic church. Between the cell phone static and her hushed tone, I gather some sketchy information about her mother's unexpected death three months ago and that Mom is now communicating scary messages through this woman's iPod. "I must speak to you NOW. I’m not crazy…I swear!" I have absolutely no idea who this, nor does she leave a number so that I can return her call.<br /><br /><b>5:00 p.m. after work observations</b> I learned long ago that my workday is never really "done". I seem to be some sort of a mystical magnet for people's struggles and often find myself conversing with strangers about the troubling aspects of their lives. These impromptu mini-sessions can happen with the waitress at Denny's, a cashier at Home Depot or in the produce section of Trader Joe's. My ears are also tuned to the interesting conversations of other people. Here's a fragment of one I happened upon while waiting in line for a smoothie at Whole Foods:<br /><br /><b>Mid-Life-Redhead:</b> "Did you hear that Jane's husband dropped dead in the bathroom at LAX last week?"<br /><b>Mid-Life-Blonde:</b> "Yeah. Wish it had been my husband."<br />(both women chuckle)<br /><b>MLR:</b> "I think that's called 'widow envy'."<br /><b>MLB:</b> "Well, I have got a bad case of that right now."<br /><b>MLR:</b> "I thought you guys were okay after your trip to Cancun."<br /><b>MLB:</b> "Yeah, we got home and all I could think of was that we just don't have anything in common anymore. He's a cat person and I want to see him drive off a cliff or better yet, die in some way that involves a wrongful death settlement."<br /><b>MLR:</b> "I think that when you start fantasizing about all the ways your husband could die, it's a sign the marriage is over."<br /><b>MLB:</b> "Whatever."<br /><br />Just like a cookie full of arsenic, inside every "whatever" is a little bit of "fuck you".<br /><br />I return to Whole Foods the following week when I have some time to linger in the vitamin and supplement aisles. This section of the store never fails to disappoint when it comes to people watching. On any given day, you might observe someone swinging a pendulum over the probiotics or using homemade dowsing rods to search for the best natural remedies for erectile dysfunction.<br /><br />On this visit, I witness a woman in overworked yoga pants and Hello Kitty slippers cornering a male employee to show him a photo she's taken with her iPhone of a bothersome rash on her inner thighs. As she is yammering through the accompanying symptoms, he interrupts her with, "sorry ma'am...I work in the produce department." She seems unfazed and lunges toward another employee to begin her tirade anew.<br /><br />Over in the shampoo aisle, I happen upon a heated debate about the environmental impact of "lather, rinse, REPEAT" and how the "repeat" part of the shampooing instructions is creating a massive footprint from which we, as a society, will never recover. Polar ice caps are melting because we are being ordered by the beauty product cartels to lather up twice! When will the madness end? Where is Al Gore when we need him? Is this the Apocalypse?<br /><br />Namaste, assholes.</div>
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Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8276924242808831445.post-6180041950687038792014-09-11T07:38:00.001-07:002020-03-07T17:18:24.496-08:00<b><u>Of Crystal Skulls and Ouija Boards Part I</u></b><br />
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"I've tried everything. I've done therapy, I've done colonics. I went to a psychic who had me running around town buying pieces of ribbon to fill the colors in my aura."</div>
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~Jim Carrey</div>
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Men with pony tails, women with feathers in their hair, impromptu ceremonial rituals involving smoldering bundles of sage, a loudly chanting (and possibly weeping) self-proclaimed shaman and a hermaphrodite playing a haunting tune on the crystal bowls. No, you are not about to read a touching tale of mysterious Native American tribal customs. These are all middle-class white folks gathered at a crystal shop conveniently located next door to the so-called psychic temple of “Dr. Hal” in Sedona, Arizona.<br />
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As I venture further into the shop, I observe a paunchy man in a too-tight lime green tee shirt perched on a huge chunk of quartz polished into the shape of a tortoise/footstool. He is tearfully whispering into the pages of a book about extraterrestrial encounters, oblivious to the curious stares of the shoppers reaching over him for the vanilla incense which is on clearance. A statuesque woman (not an employee of the store, I learn later) with black hair flowing to her mid-thighs is giving an informal lecture to a group of Asian tourists gathered around a life-size painting of an incredibly attractive Jesus, his linen tunic torn open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest (think New Testament Fabio). While it is unclear if the Asians understand a word she is saying, the woman is describing in vivid detail one of her past lives in which she was the girlfriend of Jesus (NOT Mary Magdalene, she is quick to add, but from her accounting of events of the day, I gather that she was a groupie, following Jesus from town to town, taking care of his…um…"needs" and doing her best to keep that rascal, Judas in line).<br />
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Sedona is one of the New Age epicenters in North America where people come to experience the vortex energy ("spiritual hot tubs without the water" as it has been described), take bone-jarring Jeep rides to haunted burial grounds and spaceship landing sites, chat casually in the soy milk aisle of the grocery store about alien abductions and have their auras read by trained professionals. <br />
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The first time I was here was 1990 (in the relatively serene and unfettered days before I stumbled into the psychic profession) and either I was asleep at the switch and did not notice the "local color", or it was not as celebrated and paraded around town as it is today. Now it seems that one cannot possibly escape the New Agey circus going on here. These folks are my cohorts, my tribe, my homies...we toil away day after day, reading palms, tea leaves and energy fields. We listen to the questions of the fearful seeking comfort, the angry seeking revenge and the lost seeking guidance. All of this seems pretty heavy as I sit on the patio of a restaurant on the main drag, sipping my Mothership Margarita and trying not to feel cynical about Dr. Hal giving psychic readings from a worn leather recliner back at the crystal shop earlier that afternoon. <br />
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I'm not entirely sure why I agreed to come to this place again. A friend suggested it, and before I knew what I was doing, I was enthusiastically investigating sites online to sign up for energy balancing, psychic readings and chakra clearing. <br />
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I was quick to drink the Kool-aid.<br />
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Following are the highlights of my three day experience:<br />
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<b>Day 1:</b><br />
Arrive in town and observe tourists wandering trance-like through the streets. Speculate casually if something in the air is affecting them while making mental notes to stay alert in case we have blundered into Ground Zero of the Zombie Apocalypse. Compelled to enter shop after shop selling crystals, Native American totems, religious art and healing tinctures, sprays and potions. Notice that in each of these shops, there is enough patchouli and gauze to mummify an elephant (initially disturbing, but it gradually becomes part of the "experience"). Find myself purchasing bags of unnecessary crystals while the clerks behind the counters smile reassuringly and nod in time to the Enya tunes wafting through the shop. Still coherent enough to giggle about McDonald's arches being turquoise instead of the traditional gold. Am asked earnestly and with great concern by a local shopkeeper if I remember being abducted by ETs when I was 8 years old. Jokingly tell him that I believe I was raised by aliens hell-bent on a mission to destroy all life on planet earth. Shopkeeper is not amused and I note that a sarcastic attitude about our space neighbors is frowned upon. Become fascinated by the myriad of massage therapy options in town...nothing is out of the question, apparently, and one can choose from a vast array of offerings from Chinese Happy Foot Massage to Trauma Touch Therapy, to Animal Massage (animals are receiving massages as opposed to giving them, I learn), Mineral Mud massage, Crystal Massage (sharing space with "Astara" who offers Shamanic Leg Waxing) and the intriguing Psychic Massage which I avoid investigating since someone in a caftan (gender unknown) is standing outside of the treatment room, cajoling passers-by to come in and "experience the magic". All I can imagine is that it's less strenuous to massage people in their past lives than it is to address their current physical bodies.<br />
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<b>Day 2:</b><br />
Disquieting juxtaposition of The Nutcracker soundtrack (it’s February), chili peppers hanging in dusty clumps from the ceiling and a garish Kokopelli motif splashed across the walls. We are dining at the Coffee Pot restaurant, celebrated home of 101 omelets (peanut butter and jelly, Spam and pineapple, pepperoni and asparagus to name but a few of the questionable combinations perhaps conceived during a late-night drinking binge and/or a Magic 8 Ball consultation) and a gift shop whose inventory has busted loose from its original enclosure and spilled over into the dining area. While awaiting the arrival of our less-adventurous omelets, the hostess encourages us to try on a jaunty cowgirl hat, a scarf knit from cactus fibers or a faux leather skirt festooned with beaded fringe. We choose instead to listen in on a loud conversation at an adjacent table where a rotund couple are debating the health benefits of soy bacon while washing down their five-cheese omelets with military-grade coffee. <br />
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Sleep was elusive the previous night as I became convinced that my pillow was stuffed with what can only be described as golf balls and bubble wrap. At 3:00 a.m., frustrated and alert, I wander out to sit on the balcony in the light of the full moon and observe strange flashing lights on the side of the mountain. Was this the beginning of my own transformation into one of the zombie-tourist Pod People roaming through town? And if so, could Trauma Touch Therapy be far behind?</div>
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Today, I have an appointment with "Wanda" for an intuitive reading and energy balancing. A friend has recommended her services as "very healing", and I am past due for some of that. My friend has warned me, however that Wanda is from New Jersey and is a bad-ass. She is not a purveyor of sweetness and light, but rather a powerhouse of cosmic manhandling who will plow through my energy field, toss out the trash and set all things right in my world. At the very least, I am looking forward to observing how someone else works with the intuitive guidance aspect since I have worn deep grooves of routine and habit in my own practice.<br />
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I arrive at Wanda's condo and am greeted enthusiastically with a ferocious bear hug and loud, braying laughter as she informs me (while I am still standing in the doorway) that she could feel me coming a mile away. I am ushered into a small knick-knack nightmare of a living room and am not sure if I should look at the statues representing every known religion, the Virgin Mary clock on the wall or the Egyptian sarcophagus standing guard in the corner. There is a massage table in the middle of the room where the purported energy balancing will take place, but first, I am to sit on the floral love seat and tell her why I wanted to come see her. What am I struggling with? What am I resisting? Why am I unhappy with my life? Wanda is looking deep into my eyes, searching for the meaning of my presence in her condo, and perhaps here on earth. Suddenly, I have no idea what to say to her. She is, indeed, a bad-ass, and will not tolerate any whining or fear-based bullshit coming from my mouth today. She asks, "so what's your problem, Honey", as though I have brought my car into a busy repair shop because I heard a "funny noise".</div>
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I stumble around the usual human complaints and she dismisses each one with a wave of her Jersey hand adorned with neon pink nail polish and gold rings. I sheepishly come to the end of my short list of issues and allow her to offer her opinion about my station in life. In the first sentence of her impatient evaluation, she pronounces the word "ask" as "ax"...and it is at this precise moment that the Chief of the Grammar Police in me no longer feels obligated to listen to her advice. I tune out. I nod and smile and begin to compose in my mind the email I am going to write to my friend who recommended Wanda to me. She is blunt and rough as she tells me to get off my ass and stop stalling. Life is waiting. What the fuck am I so scared of, anyway?<br />
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Now that we have solved all of my problems, it's time for me to hoist myself onto the massage table so Wanda can do what she likes to do best: blast through the road blocks and brick walls I have erected in my energy field. But before we do that, I am ordered to use the bathroom so that I don't interrupt her while she is working her magic.<br />
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There are rules to using Wanda's toilet. I must not flush tampons, sanitary napkins or excessive wads of toilet paper. I must hold the handle down for 10 seconds, otherwise everything won't flush. I am to put the lid down when I am done and wash my hands with antibacterial soap. If I feel so inclined, I am welcome to use the unscented lotion on the sink. I do not have tampons or sanitary napkins to dispose of today, thankfully, so I concentrate on counting to 10 as I hold the handle down...but instead of things flushing away in the traditional manner, the water begins to rise, as does my heart rate. I really didn't have much to offer the toilet gods today, so why the damn thing is about to overflow is a mystery. I call out to Wanda that something is going wrong, and she bustles in with a plunger to fix whatever the hell I did to her toilet. Is this part of the energy clearing? Because I feel a strong wave of emotions (shame, anxiety, I-didn't-even-really-need-to-pee righteousness) rising to the surface as she plunges away at her temperamental commode.<br />
<br />
I make myself useful by climbing onto the massage table and willing my blood pressure to return to normal. Soon enough, Wanda is sitting on a stool with her large hands on my head (did she wash her hands after using that plunger?) and this is when things start (?) to get weird. Her voice and demeanor change and it sounds as though she is channeling the ghost of Muddy Waters. I resist the urge to open my eyes to see if Wanda has traded places with an elderly black man somewhere between the bathroom and the living room. Now she is chanting in an eerie, unearthly language, and I am struggling to relax. Now she is blowing on the top of my head and commanding me loudly to "release it". <br />
<br />
I will be the first to admit that I am a novice when it comes to energy work. I know what it is and how it can help, but at this point, things are feeling so ridiculous that all I want to do is trace my steps back to the restaurant with the Mothership Margaritas and call it a day. The chanting and invoking of various entities continues. Wanda touches a variety of points on my head, neck and arms with a peacock feather while conversing in no-nonsense tones with what she must believe is an ancient demon living in the basement of my psyche. <br />
<br />
At last the session is complete and I am told to sit up slowly, which I do. Something must have happened because I feel dizzy and disoriented. Wanda shows me several large cards with images of saints and angels and I am asked to point to the one I resonate with the most, which I do. She regards me carefully and then tells me to get off the table, our session is complete, and reminds me to drink plenty of water. I am not told the significance of the card I chose, but it seemed to mean something to her, and I was not curious enough to "ax". As I am reluctantly hugging her and pretending to thank her for her time, the embittered circus midget in my mind who examines and renders judgment on everything is saying, "see? This is why we don't do this crazy shit! Get out! Go do something normal like purchasing $200 worth of crystals you have no idea how to use!"</div>
<div>
Good advice. As usual.<br />
<br />
<b>Day 3:</b><br />
Awakened with a jolt at 3:00 a.m. again (surprised I was actually sleeping on the so-called pillow stuffed with the contents of the recycling bin) and feel the compulsion to go out to the balcony. No flickering lights on the side of the mountain tonight, but I do hear a strange, low humming/rumbling sound which seems to be all around me. I can feel the vibration through the floor of the balcony as the hair on the back of my neck begins to rise. At this point, I am fully expecting to see a large space ship hovering over the hotel, but no such visual occurs...just the unsettling vibration all around me accompanied by the sensation that something is about to happen.</div>
<div>
Nothing actually happens.<br />
<br />
Back to bed and fall into a deep sleep in which I dream I am watching a surgery from an observation deck. I do not notice any emotions about the dream, and it all seems very clinical and matter-of-fact. Awaken at 6:00 a.m. and decide that I do not need to return to Sedona in this lifetime.</div>
<div>
Today we are visiting some art galleries as well as the home of a friend who lives part-time in Sedona. Frankly, I am over this place and ready to escape, but we press on through our day and arrive at "Serena's" house in the late afternoon. It is a large, beautiful home, but once again, I see Egyptian statues, art and gee-gaws displayed in each of the rooms. Back in the 1980s when King Tut's dusty remains were touring the world, it seemed as though everyone was on the Egyptian bandwagon, singing songs, re-decorating homes and wearing artifacts and now it appeared that all of that philosophy/decor had come home to roost in Sedona. As we play a game with Tarot cards (this is what happens when you drink the Kool-Aid, folks), one of the women at the table tells me with tempered alarm that she sees orbs above my head. I look up, expecting to see something like a swarm of glowing wasps and am immediately hit with a wave of vertigo strong enough to make me grab on to the table to steady myself. Suddenly I am crying and shaking and ready to bolt out the door (interior design side note: the entryway is decorated in the style of a medieval castle with a snarling dragon head above a massive mirror and a heavy, carved wooden front door boasting wrought iron handles in the shape of swords). The women take turns trying to calm me down, but the vertigo is increasing and all that is really clear is that our Tarot game is over.<br />
<br />
Did I actually see an extraterrestrial? No. Did I experience the vortex energy? Maybe. Did I receive a chair massage from someone claiming to be the reincarnation of Joan of Arc outside of a busy grocery store? Yes. Was I possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled Egyptian tomb-builder? Jury is still out.</div>
Susettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17590785833319847976noreply@blogger.com0