The Poker Face and the Psychic

So it was my best friend's birthday and I wanted to treat her to something unique and entertaining. Pam always turns my birthdays into fabulous, memorable and decadent affairs and I wanted to do the same for her.
And since she's always been curious about psychics, I thought a reading might be just the ticket. A little Googling, a little research and voila! I found a psychic that had been featured on TV and boasted over 30 rave reviews on Yelp. Cool!

But maybe this gal was TOO good, seeing how she was booked through June. When she referred me to someone that she sees when she wants a reading for herself, I figured, hey, a psychic's psychic! Maybe this would be even better.

So I booked an appointment for Pam. And what the heck, I reserved a reading for myself , too. Afterwards, I thought we could share a laugh while comparing notes over lunch.

Oh, and indeedy we shared. But we weren't laughing. It was more like we were lifting our gaping jaws off the floor and wondering how the hell this woman knew what she did. After all, we had each worn our best poker face during our private sessions; saying nothing, revealing nothing, acknowledging nothing.
How did this psychic know what she knew?
She told me lots of things, like the recent date I'd had replete with mixed signals. She said I was perplexed about his behavior, but reassured me that "it's not you, it's him. Not you, HIM." She described an exact date I'd recently had, but I said nothing.
She told me that my spiritual guide was a deer and that I relate to them. Now friends know me as a dog lover, but I've never shared the kinship I feel with deer. Every morning I look for them throughout the hills when I drive to work , considering it a good sign if I spot one. I've got 911 on my speed dial in case I see a deer strolling on the shoulder, afraid it might get hit by a car. I've got photos of deer on my bulletin board at work and find peace looking at their gentle faces. My poker face remained intact.

"You are spiritual," she observed, "but no longer religious." Until recently, I had attended church faithfully for over ten years; that is, until I realized that my pastor was more interested in trolling the Internet for jokes to use in his sermon than tending to people in need. I haven't stepped foot in a church since. Gulp. Still, I remained silent.
Then she read my Tarot cards and gasped, clasping her hands to her chest. "Oh, you've been struck in the heart!" she exclaimed in her clipped British accent. "You are grieving, mourning over the death of a loved one."
I said nothing.
"You've lost a lot of weight because I see a stripped soul."
Nothing. Poker face, poker face.
"She's with you all the time, watching and protecting you."
How did she know my loss was a she?
"She never leaves your side. And she wants you to know that she's glad it happened this way. She's glad she went suddenly because she didn't want to whither away for six months."

Mom died quickly from a pulmonary embolism, but had been scheduled for six months of a grueling experimental chemotherapy. The tears started welling.

And the minor detail that clinched it: "She was concerned about her hair and had made an appointment."
Mom had scheduled a date with her hair stylist to go shopping for wigs. The appointment card is still posted on her refrigerator door. With that, my poker face collapsed and the tears flowed.

Real deal or talented scam artist? We'll never know for sure. All I can say is that this was supposed to be a present for Pam. But at the end of the day I walked away feeling like I'd received the gift.

And You Know This Because...

Okay, show of hands please: how many of you know what a "fluffer" is?

Really, that many, eh? Guess it's just me.

Because I think "fluffer" sounds like a pretty word, a noun used to describe a person whose work results in something fluffy and lacy and delicate. Like a pastry chef who bakes mouth-watering macaroons or a seamstress who crochets exquisite soft shawls.

When I described my co-worker as being a good "fluffer," it was because she can work magic with a bag and decorative tissue and crepe paper. She fluffs them into lovely, wispy mountain peaks, cascades and bows. If she fluffs well, wouldn't that make her a good fluffer?

How was I supposed to know that a fluffer is actually the crew member on a pornographic movie set whose sole responsibility is to keep the male star, er...."happy" prior to filming sex scenes? It's not like fluffers are used on shows I frequent, like Ghost Whisperer or What Not To Wear.

My co-worker isn't holding my faux pas against me since we both agree, she does fluff exceptionally well. Although just between you and me, I still say she's one heck of a fluffer.

What the $#@$*k!!?

Okay pottymouths, listen up -- California's first official "Cuss-Free Week" kicks off today, March 2-7. And while most people may find a non-swearing vocabulary paralyzing, immobilizing and incapacitating, I for one anticipate sailing through the week unscathed. C'mon, how hard can it be to go a few days without using expletives? Should be a fu....er, I mean, flippin' piece of cake.
Barring a few exceptions, of course. And so, this week I vow to not utter one single swear word. That is, unless I:

• Drop my Bluetooth in the toilet. Again.
• Stub my toe.
• Discover that my teenage niece has posted a photo of me on Facebook in which I bear a striking resemblance to Howard Stern.
• Sneeze and wet my pants. Not that this has ever happened before, mind you. I'm just mentioning this in case, uh, you know, beyond my wildest imagination it did happen.
• Get stuck behind some idiot in the "15 items or less" line who apparently can't read because he is buying enough groceries to feed Squaw Valley.
• Receive any type of correspondence from my physician that includes the word "colonoscopy."
• Gulp a generous swig of my latte only to discover that the soy milk I used expired three weeks ago.
• Am rammed in the knees by an over-zealous mall mom who is using her child's stroller as a battering ram so she can race over to Macy's for their daily "one day only" sale.
• Find my greyhound, Lucy, once again using my $125 handmade medium density side-sleeper hypoallergenic luxury down pillow as her own pillow...for her butt.
• Get yet another "invitation" from those stalkers at AARP. Hey, I'm in denial, folks. Work with me.
• Step in....oh, never mind. That's a Hall of Famer and goes without saying.

Yup, piece of cake, all right. Somebody hand me a staple gun for the lips and I'm good to go.

And in the End

Different versions of this essay, about how I'd like my memorial service, have appeared in various publications, but I'm repeating it here--only to ensure that that nobody calls me a "wretched soul" (from the hymn "Amazing Grace." I never did like that line). Not that I'm planning on going anywhere soon, so you can ditch the panicked call to 911. Just consider this a proactive measure on my part and listen up pals:

THIS is how I'd like be remembered.

For starters, I want my greyhounds, Elvis and Lucy, at my service. They may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why their human has left them and they're suddenly living with someone else. But they must be at my service. If any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for these dogs. Elvis and Lucy are as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. They sit. And stay. In the row reserved for family.

I want people to laugh. Really. I hope my friends will muster the courage to stand up and tell funny stories about me because I will have died without tears and regrets. So I never married. Never had kids. Never had the corner office, wrote a best-seller or squeezed into a pair of size two jeans. Know what?

Don't care. Doesn't matter. I was happy. Content. Grateful to wake up each day healthy, in a warm bed, with a roof over my head, a job to sustain me and people who loved me.

Amidst carnations (take note: my favorite flower), I'd like my sister, Jennifer, to talk about that joke she played on me, the one where she convinced me that her house was haunted. Pam, my best friend, should 'fess up about us attending a Donny Osmond concert--uh, in our forties. Richard can share memories from our time at Dublin High ("it's all your fault!"), and Deb can laugh about that time in New Orleans when we feared we were being sold as middle-aged sex slaves.

Shared lives and experiences. In good times and bad, through grimaces and grins, we held each others' hands for strength and support. And laughed. Always, we laughed.

Music must be an integral part of my service. Friends may know me as an Elvis Costello fan(who do you think my dog is named for...that Presley dude?), but there are many songs I hold dear, mainly due to fond childhood memories.

Moon River by Andy Williams. Just about any sixties tune by Johnny Mathis or Herb Alpert. The instrumental Love is Blue by Paul Mauriat. Clair de Lune, because my father would play it on the piano and as a child I thought he had composed it. I remember hearing it on the radio one day and running to him in hysterics, screeching that someone had stolen his song.

I love the poignancy of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys. The optimistic Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head by B.J. Thomas, and the corny Everything is Beautiful by Ray Stevens. Since lyrics should be somewhat relevant, given the circumstances, this probably rules out Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. My friends can make that call.

Oh, but there is one song that must be played. Someone once quoted these lyrics to me, in an email response to an article I wrote about adopting Elvis. It's from the Beatles Abbey Road, incidentally my all-time favorite album. The song is titled, appropriately enough, "The End. " Just 28 words long, the last eight say it all. The same eight words I quoted just last week in my Valentine's Day post:

And in the end...
the love you take,
is equal to the love,
You make.

And with that final song, my service will be over. Held on a day I hope to dodge for many years to come.

Happy Valentine's Day

"And in the end,

the love you take,

is equal to the

love you make."

~Lennon/McCartney

Just Another Typical Day at the Office

Today I got a lick from a cow named Ellie.

And how was your day?

Out of the Closet

This morning I began the arduous task of sorting through and emptying the home that Mom lived in for over 40 years. Eventually my sister will join me in this emotional endeavor, but right now the pain is still too fresh and she's just not ready. We all have our weak spots, those Code Red triggers, and hers is the house.

That's okay. These past few months, Jennifer has carried me when I've been weak, hugged me when I've cried and made me laugh when I never even thought I could smile. I'm more than happy to help my "baby" sister through this rough patch.

Besides, I figure I can handle one closet at a time. Really, I can do this. Ninety minutes, a few boxes and garbage bags and voila. After all, how hard can one closet be?

Let me tell you.

Although this particular closet was in my former bedroom, over the years it had turned into a catch-all. The plentiful pillows, duvets and blankets were easy decisions: the good ones would go to Shepherd's Gate, a shelter for abused women, and the tattered ones would find their way to the local animal shelter. But then I started unearthing more stuff, the kind of stuff you think you'll never forget, but lo and behold, here it is suddenly staring you in the face and turns out you forgot about it after all.

Like my collection of TV Guides from 1970. I don't recall why I was so into TV Guide that year. I'm guessing I was frantically checking to see if the Osmond Brothers were appearing on that week's episode of The Andy Williams Show, but why did I save each issue? Only my juvenile old brain remembers why.

I found my autographed black and white 8x10 glossy of Bob Hope, and a personal letter from the late comedian/actor, Freddie Prinze. I recalled seeing him on The Tonight Show in 1974, thinking he was hysterical, and writing to him asking where and how he garnered his comedy material. Even back then I was interested in writing.

There were my school yearbooks and my sister's birth certificate with the original photo and her teeny I.D. bracelet the circumference of a quarter. I found our familiar kitchen fixture, the brown ceramic Dutch girl cookie jar that was always stocked with Dad's favorite Mother's Cookies , and the red dog collar with tarnished tags that had the faded inscription, "Kernel," our long-deceased Cockapoo.

I found a half-filled tube of my Bonnie Bell Strawberry Lip Smacker lip gloss that I wore endlessly in the 8th Grade, and another iconic symbol from the 70's, my Pet Rock. I also discovered a long-lost love letter addressed to me from somebody named Mark.

Who the heck was Mark?

Throughout all this excavating, I was doing okay. My heart grew heavier with each treasured memento and keepsake revealed, but I kept trudging through like a trouper. That is, until I came across a ball of rolled up material stuffed inside a crinkly plastic shopping bag.

Drapes, maybe? Or perhaps a bedspread or small area carpet? I was about to slam dunk the bag into the "trash" pile until I thought better of it and decided to check out the contents. Good thing I did.

It was our mother's wedding dress.

And with that, I locked up the house and left. How hard could one closet be, I wondered?

Let me tell you.