A while back, I received a couple of unsolicited e-mails about this web site from a person named Raj, which I think you'll agree is an exceptionally cool name. Turns out he went to high school with one of Partick's former girlfriends, and frequents some of the Scottsdale hot spots to which I have occasionally been granted access; and also Sanctuary, to which my access has been twice denied due to dress code violations on the part of my model brother. Anyhoo, feeling cool and celebrity-like, I turned on the virtual charm and Raj evaporated into cyberspace.

The up side of being blown off in this way is imagining that the person who did it--Raj, Enigma, whomever--may have perished under mysterious circumstances, or perhaps horribly disfigured in an accident, heh, heh, and was thus prevented from writing ever again. I certainly prefer that explanation to the one offered by the professional psychic whom I met last time I was in Hollywood visiting my cousin, the Elegant Evelyn.

Not that I believe everything psychics have to say, or that I make a big deal of seeking them out. But even at my most skeptical, I figure the important part of their message is how I receive and am able to use it. If they are, as most critics claim, merely doing "cold readings," picking up on how I present myself and responding to my responses, well, at least it's instructive to learn what kind of vibe I'm emitting to strangers.

"Hmmm," my psychic said. "You have trouble with men. Have you considered women?"

Alas, this query is nothing new. Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to lesbians. I probably wouldn't be opposed to being one, except that I'm not so inclined and am too lazy to adopt any new projects. Still, I seem to be emitting this vibe even though I wear lipstick and have quite a girly hair-do.

"Oh, please," snorted the Amazing Amy when I related the experience. "A psychic saying you're having trouble with men is about as astute as one saying, 'you are dissatisfied with your job,' or, 'you don't feel you are making the money you deserve.' Completely standard."

Well, that helped. But when I heard it late at night in a dingy hole in the wall off Hollywood Blvd, kids screaming in the background (on a school night), it sounded more convincing, and I checked to see what shoes I was wearing. Too sensible?

The psychic said other things as well: simplify and focus, meditate and pray, blah and blah, and seriously consider coming to see her on a regular basis, maybe for some energy work next time.

When it comes to prognosticating, I prefer Greek women with Greek coffee because, so far anyway, they don't charge anything, their kids only run amok late on weekend nights, and you get to drink coffee. Watch out for the cups, though. They are tiny and have thin walls. Peggy (or "Huggy" to my much adored Aunt Jan) handed Partick and I a cup each, but since she had the handle and our other hands were full, we took them by the thin walled side then shouted, "Hot! Hot! Hot!" until she took them back and placed them on a nearby table. Okay, maybe we could have come up with that solution on our own, but the other way we got to shout and do less stuff. Oh, and happy birthday, Kathy the Greek!

Now Partick's coffee sludge was interpreted as money and tragedy, though details on denominations and enormity were scant. Neither was depicted in my cup, crowded out perhaps by the weird yet nice assertion that that very night some man of my acquaintance had decided he wanted to propose marriage to me, but would change his mind come morning, presumably having sobered up.

That works for me, because when it comes right down to it, I want a boyfriend less than I want boys to want me for a girlfriend. And if I can accomplish that psychically and without turning into "Angie Baby" from the Helen Reddy song, everybody wins.

Hmm. I wonder if it was Raj.

(Written by Sharon C. McGovern)

From Vol. 35
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