Stupid Cupid Part II

“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.” 

~Margaret Atwood

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 different from the other inmates and her heart melts when he brushes against her in the hallway.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Burning Man: one woman’s search for the perfect sperm donor

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 is 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.

"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).

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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 his 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.

The video continues with snippets from the event:

~Sally opening the door to a porta-potty to reveal a dude in a dress blowing another dude in a horse head mask
~Naked people covered in glitter dancing to trance music on deep-pile shag carpet in a geodesic dome
~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.

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).

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.

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.

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.


In other session news:

~High School teacher marries freshman student with her parents' full consent.

~Match.com inadvertently unites long-lost brother and sister (not realized until they compare family photos after a month of round-the-clock screwing).

~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.

~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.

Choices are the hinges of destiny. 

~Edwin Markham

De-mystifying the Mystic

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise, they'll kill you." 

~Oscar Wilde

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?

The life of a psychic/spiritual guide

Perception:

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.

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.

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.

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.

10:00 a.m. Peaceful meditation with saints, angels and ascended masters.

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.

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.

1:00 p.m. Water award-winning succulents in perfectly-landscaped garden. Smile as butterflies come to rest on my shoulders.

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.

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.

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.

10:00 p.m. Catch glimpse of halo in mirror while spritzing face with Pope-blessed distilled rosewater.

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.

Reality:

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.

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.

6:00 a.m. Grudgingly click over to emails to assess damage. Seven messages from website requesting sessions. Twenty three urgent messages from people (clients as well as strangers) in various levels of physical, emotional and imaginary crisis.

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.

6:30-7:00 a.m. Force self to reply to emails.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Indecent Proposal 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).

Stuff I've learned (about myself and others) plus bonus quotes:

1. People only hear what they want to hear and when they're hungry, they barely hear anything at all.

2. People don’t really want advice; they want to know that everything is going to be okay.

"Our anxiety does not come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it."
~Kahlil Gibran

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").

“Like all angry men, he loved his grievance” ~Anthony Trollope

4. The known hell is better than the unknown heaven. 

5. People often fall in love with the potential of what could be rather than seeing situations and people as they truly are.

"Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke." ~Lynda Barry

6. Down deep, people already know the truth.

"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable." ~James A. Garfield

7. If you fall in love with a bra, it will be discontinued. Guaranteed.

Dollar Store Douche

"A good scare is worth more to a person than good advice."

 ~Edgar Watson Howe

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.

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.

Go directly to fail: worst ideas ever

Drama #1
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.

Drama #2
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. 

Drama #3
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.

Drama #4
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.

Drama #5
Florida client's fiancee incurs horrific injuries taking selfie with alligator who blunders into kitchen through the doggie door.

Drama #6 (a personal tale)
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.

We put the "no" in innovation

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:

~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.

~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.

~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.

~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.

Good luck getting that visual out of your head.

~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.

~Musical dog leash. No explanation on that one.

~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.


Social repulsion

I'm a world-class introverted recluse who does not 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.

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.

And then shit happens.

Ladies who lunch

~ 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.

~ 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.

Nightlife nightmares

~ 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.

~ 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:

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.
2. Lead singer of 80s cover band botches the lyrics to Beast of Burden 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.
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.

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.


A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma

Bewildering questions and statements:

~ 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?"

~ “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.”

~ "Is it wrong that I keep my mother's ashes in a root beer bottle?"

~ "I'm worried that my dead father is watching me have sex with my husband."

The Cowgirl and Mr. Pickle: In which we are presented with far too much information Part II

“I couldn't possibly have sex with someone with such a slender grasp on grammar!” 

~Russell Brand

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.

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.

Following are a few of the noteworthy sex workers I've spoken with over the years:

Kitty Hart* (star of Saturday Night Beaver and Romancing the Bone)
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 therapeutic practice but she's worried that people will recognize her from her porn films and won't take her seriously.

Lucy Lewd aka Lucy Lipps* (phone sex operator)
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 each one 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 some of the drama, she becomes an eight year old girl who really, really 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.

Ginger Wood* (freelance Vegas escort)
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?"

Rocky Wilder* (Miami male stripper/gay escort)
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.

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 "Sexual Healer". I can actually hear the emphatic italics over the phone as he makes certain that I understand he has been doing "Serious Work" with the women who seek him out.

You know. Just in case I was thinking he was a man-whore who was banging anyone with a credit card.

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.

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 empowers her to simultaneously be in control and not have to look at the face of her sexual partner.

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 Sexual Wizardry (cheesy tagline: casting spells of love). 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 empowers you and is part of the "therapy").

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 victims clientele.

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 trade 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 ("what woman wouldn't", 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.

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 female 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.

*Not their real fake names.

Walk-ins Welcome

"All a skeptic is is someone who hasn't had an experience yet." 

~Jason Hawes

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:

1. Fear of being possessed by hobgoblins looking to hitch a ride around town in my body
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.

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.

Explained

Case #1~
Evidence: 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).
Debunk: Morbidly 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.

Case #2~
Evidence: Client arrives for session dressed in Civil War-era attire. She has been watching Somewhere in Time repeatedly for the past month and has convinced herself that, with my help, 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.
Debunk: 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 (of course!) makes time travel back to the 1800s impossible.

Case #3~
Evidence: 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.
Debunk: 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.

Case #4~
Evidence: 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 for sure 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.
Debunk: 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.


Unexplained

Case #1~
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.

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.

Now I'm interested.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

About a year after this incident, I have another dream in which Sandy tells me adamantly that Ann needs 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.

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.

Case #2~
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.

When spine-tingling events begin happening on our home turf, we tend to get a bit skittish.

In the very 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 The Amityville Horror. 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!

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.

"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?

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.

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.

Shit gets real in the Doom Room:

~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.
~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.
~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 Ghostbusters 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.
~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.
~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.
~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.
~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.
~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.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

~Shakespeare Hamlet Act 1

Stupid Cupid Part I

"The desire to get married, 
which - I regret to say, I believe is basic and primal in women - 
is followed almost immediately by an equally basic and primal urge - 
which is to be single again." 

~Nora Ephron

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 finally put their decorating talents to use in the beautiful house he will provide for her.

Gloria Steinem is vomiting her breakfast into the kitchen sink right now.

Following are some memorable moments from past sessions:

Marital Theatrics
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!"

Which leads us to:

Husband Shenanigans
~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".
~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.
~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 you."
~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.
~Husband arrested for masturbating in the Walmart parking lot during his lunch hour.


It Ain't Over Till It's Over
Stalkers. Cheaters. Pedophiles. Dog haters. Thieves. Compulsive liars. Gold diggers. Addicts. Extreme hoarders. Ex cons. Current cons. Psychopaths. Abusers. Violent control freaks.

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!

But you would be surprised by how challenging it is for many people to eradicate the villains from their lives.

~Extremely anxious female client "Jane" arrives for her session already in tears.
Me: "How are you?"
Jane: "Why? What have you heard? What are your Guides telling you?"
(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.)
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, all) 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.

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.

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 are 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."

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?

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 Sleeping With the Enemy 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.


Some Day My Prince Will Come
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:

Plenty of Fish~ 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.
Christian Mingle~ 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").
 Farmers Only (tagline: City folks just don't get it)~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 giggle 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 Bridges of Madison County, all of which seemed charming at first but now is a deafening announcement of his true orientation.

"Honesty is the key to a relationship. If you can fake that, you're in."

~Richard Jeni

 

Of Crystal Skulls and Ouija Boards Part II

"What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? 

In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet."

~Woody Allen

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.

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?

Try to ignore that ominous music you are hearing right now.

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 extremely foul mood when he awakens. Damn trolls.

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.

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 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.

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:

*Rainbow Tree Frog divorced her husband of 30 years to oversee an organic mushroom farm with her lesbian lover in Northern California.

*Favilla Dragonstone, lesbian lover of Rainbow Tree Frog, organic fungus farmer and recent graduate of Wicca school in Oregon.

*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).

*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.

*Fallopia, a self-taught mystical healer of the female reproductive system, specializing in infertility issues and sexual dysfunction in men and women.

*Wounded Wolf practices aromatherapy out of a yurt in Idaho.

*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.

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).

Day 1: hit the ground running

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".

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 not 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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Day 2: reality is relative

Memorable moments:
~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.

~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.

~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 victim's patient's stomach area, supposedly conveying information and messages as Lady Morgana sporadically toodles notes on a flute.

What the fuck is this all about?

~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.

~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.

~Pot luck food inspired by Satan's catering company:

1.Hawaiian pizza abomination with discolored pineapple and soy "ham"
2.Gas station guacamole and stale corn chips
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)
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)
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.
6.Wine. Lots and lots of wine.

~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.


Day 3: tore up from the floor up

More memorable moments:

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.

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 meaningful 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 not say what I'm thinking creates a massive headache and a renewed vow to avoid any and all workshops in the future.

*Not their real fake names