I had a great conversation with a client about her egomaniacal ex-husband yesterday. I’ll call him Donald.

witchypoo: “You have a daughter.”

client: “Yes. Donalda.”

witchypoo: (starting to lose it) “Don’t tell me. Your son’s name is Donald.”

client: “Yes.”

witchypoo: “I can top that. I once had a boyfriend (Eric) who had sons named Tommy and Eric. After I kicked his sorry behind to the curb, he married a woman and had more children. The boy was Eric, and the girl was Erica. I can only imagine poor Tommy, introducing himself and his half-siblings (as in an old tv show, Newhart) ‘Hi. I’m Tommy.This is my brother Eric, and this is my other brother Eric. And this here is my sister Erica.’ .”

At this point, we were both helpless with laughter. She admitted that she was pretty embarrassed when he insisted on naming their daughter after him, in addition to the son. She was starting to get some perspective on the situation.

witchypoo: “Please ask in your divorce agreement that he not traumatize your children by naming any more offspring after himself.”

The reason it was a great conversation is that it totally underlined to her what a dillweed her ex really is, and how much better off she is to move on without him.

I’ve been having some doubts about the wisdom of using tarot cards for my readings lately.

My guides seem to want me to just channel them and be done with it, but I’m totally a rebel who doesn’t want anyone telling me what to do. I wonder where Ass Burger Boy gets that from? No need to answer. Rhetorical question.

When I do readings, a nice flow of energy is important, so I will bring very uptight clients through a quick relaxation/connecting technique.

What I haven’t encountered until this summer is the difficulty of reading really old ladies. Deaf old ladies.

First off, the usual things are not going to appeal to them. They are often retired from their jobs, have mostly outlived their husbands, and couldn’t care less about romance.

The only things that might appeal are money and health. Okay, lady, if you really insist on knowing, I can tell you how much longer you will live. Don’t expect me to tell you that you will be living with dementia, because I just cannot bring myself to do that. Yet it will show ever so plainly on the hand.

When the client is deaf-ish, I have to look directly at her, and enunciate slowly and clearly. This takes away from my focus and trance state, to say the least. Then I have to work at it.

When it doesn’t flow naturally, working at it means that the reading is not going to be nearly as good as when it comes easily.

Ask an artist or musician. Most of their best work just came together. Because they were in the zone. The zone where there is no yelling at old ladies.

They didn’t complain, but I gave them their money back anyway.

Next time? I’m just going to say that I’m unable to read them.

I already do that with the crazies.

I was a tad surprised about all the controversy about Part I of this piece, because I was writing from my own experience. Really, what else can you write from, unless you’re scraping news stories about Britney Spears?

What people don’t usually want to know, unless they have special circumstances, is when they will die.

Often I will tell a woman that she will outlive her husband, so that she can make sure he has good insurance. Not enough so that she’s tempted to kill him her ownself, because really, all women can relate to that impulse by times. No, enough so that she won’t have financial worries hit her at the same time as grief does. It makes a wreck out of a woman.

Yesterday, I read a beautiful spirit. I saw her husband’s death very soon.

I didn’t see mourning, yet she had been a good wife. I saw her whole life drastically changing, and her dreams coming true very soon.

Her dreams were simple. She wanted to travel. She wanted to have sex after repressing it for over 20 years.

Her husband suffered brain damage over 20 years ago. She has been taking care of him for lo, these twenty some years. She has forgiven him his angry unreasonable outbursts, his irrational behaviour, because she remembered the man he was before. The wonderful man she married.

This man rages and is depressed because he feels trapped in his brain-damaged existence. I wept when I looked at his picture. I saw the pain he suffers.

This woman touched my heart so profoundly. I know I will never forget her.

His death will be a blessing for all concerned.

Note: I did the Silly Sunday thing on Saturday. If you’re unhappy, I will be delighted to refund your money;)

Warrior Woman is a client who has become a friend. She’s quite gifted psychically herself, but needs some guidance on boundaries. For instance, it isn’t nice to read minds. I do not do it. Not because I can’t, but for the same reason that I wouldn’t read your mail. Because it’s rude.

Warrior Woman likes to check up on her friends to see how they are doing. Instead of picking up the phone, or clicking on her email client, she likes to do what she calls “crawling through their minds” to see what they are up to.

I can always tell when somebody is trying to get into my mind. It is always accompanied by a physical sensation, something like a tingling, but not quite, along my scalp. I immediately put up my shields when this happens. I figure anyone who crosses that boundary line certainly does not belong there.

Shortly after Warrior Woman’s first reading, I felt the crawling through my brain sensation, and put up my guards. When she phoned for her next appointment, I told her that I had felt her being intrusive, and I would not work with her unless she respected my boundaries. It’s too much freaking work to have to keep your shields up whenever someone wants to trip through your tulips.

She apologized and said she did it so routinely with her friends that it had become automatic with her. I gave her a verbal spanking and confirmed the appointment. She brought me a prezzie to demonstrate her remorse. Forgive and forget. Life went on.

She’s a great cook, and we went back and forth with dinner invites. I always got the better of the deal. She has the better food. Plus, she has the coolest kitchen gadgets. And wine. There is much wine.

So Warrior Woman calls me a few weeks ago and asks if I want to attend a Jimmy Rankin concert. She has some tickets and needs a body to fill the other seat.

I have been deep in the bat cave of late, only going out for the necessities. I really like the place I live in, and nothing much outside spins my crank as much as home does. Plus, I need only wear my comfy jammies. My comfy warm, yummy jammies. With socks, no high heels. No instrument of feminine torture bra. What’s not to love?

Warrior Woman has her kitchen gadgets, but she covets my home. Can’t really blame her. It rocks. It was built about 150 years ago by a manufacturing family, and it was since an elementary school, now converted to flats. I have the best flat, where all the mansion-y grandeur still shines. The living room alone is 20′ x 40′, the dining room/office is about half that size, both panelled in old wood reminiscent of a men’s club.

So, the concert night rolls around and I drag my sad droopy butt over the pond to Jimmy’s place. I have always been partial to Canuck music, and The Rankin Family is pure down home, toe-tapping, spoon-clacking goodness.

Jimmy wrote a lot of the tunes the family played and sang, until their breakup a while back. I was kind of thinking I would get to experience some of that Rankin magic in Jimmy’s solo concert.

It was a great venue, with excellent acoustics. We had great seats.

The opening act was a cute young fellow who wrote his own material. As soon as he hit the mike, BOOM! He dropped his guitar. Didn’t bat an eye, just exclaimed “It’s still in tune!”

Wrong.

He soldiered on through the first song, then tuned the durned guitar. My ears immediately stopped bleeding were grateful.

After about three songs, he announced an intermission before the feature act came on.

There was much admiring of all the artfully placed pretty guitars on the stage, and many technical adjustments, people coming off stage and going to the lobby, and all kinds of boring crap entertaining hijinks.

If you are not of the Canuckian persuasion, you need to be reminded that Canadians are a polite and appreciative audience. Really. I know. I’m so very proud. So this polite Canadian audience is rather subdued in the venue with the great acoustics, fixing to enjoy us a little Jimmy love.

Forty minutes later, the majority of the audience is either in a coma, or terminally programmed for politeness, because Jimmy, he hasn’t made an appearance yet.

When the golden boy finally does appear, I am steaming with the disrespect shown the audience. What does he think he is? A rock star?

How many technical adjustments and sound checks does he need? The young fella didn’t keep us waiting and he DROPPED HIS FREAKING GUITAR.

Jimmy’s guitar playing, for all those pretty guitars and many technical adjustments, sucked. Big time. And he does have a loud singing voice, but he was shouting, not singing.

I felt a scalp tingling, gave WW a psychic slap, and figured I had kept her out.

I looked at Warrior Woman and she spoke the words that were running through my mind: “I wonder what drugs he is high on?”

Mind intrusion aside, I was pretty sure that we both thought he was zonked, explaining the delays and the craptastical lacklustre performance.

A few bars into the second song, and we knew we were not in for a good experience, so we looked at each other with the “scramoose” gesture, and out we went.

All I could think was “AND I PUT A BRA ON FOR THIS?”

Yes, that is really what it boils down to. If I am going to endure the instrument of feminine torture, then there had best be some mighty fine entertainment in it for me.

Jimmy, I think I know why The Rankin Family Band broke up. Your sisters were tired of your drug addicted arse unprofessional behaviour.

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Sometimes, my clients are very high profile. This is why I use blognames for myself, my family, and my friends.

The man I would like to tell you about is a Very Recognizable Politician in a different city than mine.

I was visiting this city at the auspices of a client, who wanted an in person reading. She offered me accommodations and the use of her place to do other readings while I was in this city.

The very recognizable politician was really very sweet and pleasant. He wanted to be sure the reading was confidential. I would be so dead in the water if it wasn’t.

VRP: “Here’s the thing,witchypoo. I would be much more relaxed if I were wearing a skirt.”

Now, I am totally down with this, no problem. Wear a cheerleading uniform if it floats your boat. If it were in my own home, and I had control of who came or went. I explained this to him, and he was somewhat disappointed, but we had a lovely reading.

My hostess arrived home during this lovely reading, and graciously withdrew into another room.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t wear the skirt now?” I hissed.

“Come see me when you’re in my city. I have shoes and big feet.”

I’m all about the clients feeling relaxed. If they wear clothes.

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