SLIDER

Sunday, April 19, 2015

H33BD








"Happy birthday mama!" she says with a sweet kiss. "Can I have some of your cake?"

While this was a perfectly delicious way to start my day, I still managed to roll over and get out of bed on the wrong side. I greeted 33 with a serious badditude, despite good health, time with my adorable family, and a new espresso machine.

Maybe it's because first thing in the morning, over a homemade latte (thanks, babe!), I was inspired to download an app to age myself. 

Bad.Idea.



I was so NOT psyched on the future of my face. Particularly in the jowl area. I'm barely psyched on the present of my face. Seriously, word to the wise, when you are feeling old and a little bit fallen apart, don't try to make light of it by actually peeking into your future, when you really will be old. My sense of humor was not impressed. Nor was my husband. But I did get a laugh out of doing the same to the rest of the family.

Alex doesn't look so hot himself, but at least he's still got a full head of that fabulous hair ...




My dad barely looked any different. It was like the app said, "you're already old and wrinkly, sir, our program cannot compute."



And then there was the Bean. Holy shit I laughed hard. She looks somewhat Benjamin Button-esque, or like a 95 year old hobbit. And I love how she was able to pull off the straight face required for the aging process program to work correctly. I might have looked at this photo a few times in the past week, just for a giggle.



Needless to say, I was suuuuuuuuuper crabby all of my day o' birth. And because it was "my day," I felt entitled to wallow in it, not even bothering to attempt to perk myself up. For starter's, there was that photo. And then we had to hurry and prep for our neighborhood garage sale. In the rain. Garage sales aren't really very fun anyway - there's something kinda sad about trying to sell your used shit from the cracks in your driveway for a few extra bucks. I skipped out on most of the sale by taking the Bean to dance class (even that couldn't boost my spirits) and catering a Grand Central lunch to my husband and father. We called it quits on the sale early, because nobody was having any real fun, and because my badditude wasn't helping anyone out. And then I ran into a patient/veteran. For the first time ever. At my garage sale. AT MY HOUSE. I do NOT like when my worlds collide. Yet after he recognized and acknowledged me, I found myself babbling at him and his girlfriend like we were old homies. Afterwards I was so anxious and uncomfortable because, like I said, I do not approve of seeing people out of context, or being seen out of context.

Alex and my dad kept offering to take me out to a birthday dinner, but I just whined like a pre-teen before finally deciding that Little Big Burger and Salt & Straw might just hit the spot. As would an early bedtime for the Bean and a movie of my choice on the couch (sidenote: we rented "Short Term 12" via iTunes, and it was a fabulous movie that both Alex and I enjoyed). All of which were humored, and we snapped a few cute photos - where my toothy smile is misleading - to document the start of 33.




In terms of gifts, Alex surprised me with a cheapo espresso maker, and the Bean got me candy (her choice, she knows me well). Dad spoiled me with some cash, to pay off the new vacuum I already bought. On his credit card, because did I mention ours was declined? So essentially I just need to give the money right back to him (writing on To-Do list). Earlier in the week I treated myself to checking off a Bucket List item. I visited with a psychic medium. That's right, I said it, I paid someone $160 of my hard earned dollas to talk to dead people and/or see my future. Suffice it to say, I left the appointment poorer and somewhat disappointed. But the fact that I had high hopes at all speaks to the fragile mental space I appear to be in these days.

I met with Suzi Caffreys, a "psychic medium," with Southworth Intuitive Consulting Services, last Thursday. I've always been pretty curious about all things "spiritual," "psychic," "intuitive," with promises of telling me about myself and my future. My interest in the idea of a "medium" was piqued back when that show, Medium, was popular. It was based on a woman named Allison Dubois, a writer and medium, who claims to have helped solve criminal cases by communicating with dead people. I'm not interested in solving any crimes, I just wanted to talk to my mom, or have her talk to me.

I went to the psychic medium not expecting but kind of hoping for a miracle. What I got was a warm and overweight brunette woman in a flowing green top and black stretch pants. I didn't have any well-defined expectations for the appointment, per se, but I sort of assumed it would look a little bit like therapy, where she asked me why I was there, and what I was hoping to find. None of that. She welcomed me into her office - in a medium-sized office building in Beaverton - decorated with spiritual knickknacks and pictures of cats.

I sat down on the loveseat directly across from her chair, placing my purse at my feet. She promptly asked me to move my bag to the side, because I knew what was in it and she didn't. And because it looked like an "activity bag." She closed her eyes and started gesturing with her arms to either side of me on the couch, telling me that to my left was my matriarchal side, with the patriarchal side to my right. I willed her to focus on my left side, invite my mom to come sit next to me or something. Needless to say she started "hearing from" the paternal side of my family. She asked me whether someone had passed while another was born. The closest I could think of was Granny, my dad's mom, who died a few months before Francine was born. "Kind of," I said. "I guess so." She went on to explain the significance and beauty of this transition, one family member in, the other out, and relayed that my grandmother felt very at peace and non-conflicted about the whole thing. "Yeah, yeah, great okay, moving along," I thought to myself. My grandma died at the ripe old age of 90-something, and her death was uncomplicated. I loved her and all, but am not overly concerned about what she has to say from the grave. I said "Got it," as instructed by Suzi once I "received the message" and was ready to move on.

She then described something vague about my recent "dullness." That I was in need of a "sharpening," to "play," and to be able to "read others" again. There was some talk of heeding warnings "not to expand." She described elements concerning finances and disagreement and family. She said it's not her job to interpret the messages, that part is my duty, but that she was being told to explain to me that things are good just the way they are now.  She had a somewhat awkward giggle, and tried to explain to me how she was being told that I didn't want advice, that I wanted help, physical help, and that I like to do things my own way. That I don't need cheerleaders. She was strongly told that I need physical, not emotional, help. The whole thing last an hour, and I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to hug her or shake her hand or make another appointment with her after leaving. I wasn't clear on what the whole process was supposed to look like.

All in all, I still don't know what to make of the whole thing, thus I'm making very little of it. I don't regret spending the money, because I did something I've been wanting to do, but I'll chalk it up to just another thing I just can't find myself believing in. Yet I still hold a small glimmer of hope that all the pieces will align themselves and "everything will make sense," in a psychic kind of way.

1 comment:

  1. Please include this blog post in your book. I laughed so hard. We all need a detailed description of how a rational person is feeling while seeing a 'psychic. In fact, I urge you to submit it to Salon or Slate as a separate column called 'that time I saw a psychic'.

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