July 9th, 2009 | 22 Comments »

I know you would never it guess it from here because of my goddess like fabulosity, but sometimes I can be a tad impatient with certain clients. Stupidity, not much you can do there. But man, what really chaps my chops is the people who have their heads planted firmly up their adorable arses. There should totally be a t-shirt.

It’s really a testament to my madd skillz that I can talk in code to crazies am diplomatic. Like the woman who I felt such sadness from. I told her that she had lost her job and had boyfriend trouble, which was correct. But then she lost it. Why? Because Michael Jackson was dead. While acknowledging her emotional intensity, I pointed out that his passing has no practical impact on her life, and that she might want to focus on a strategy to find employment, and one to either reconnect with, or dump the boyfriend. When what I really wanted was to tell her to give her head a freaking shake.

I’ll just gloss over the 80 year old man who wanted to know if his ex-wife put a spell on his dangly bits to keep them ever dangly. His present wife didn’t want to do without her nerve-calming activities, it seems. And the truth was that he had good circulation (it was checked out. New wife insisted.) The new wife was making up for a long dry spell, and she just didn’t spin his crank. Hence, he blamed the ex wife and the curse. Hoping I’d get him off the hook. I can’t make this shit up.

I was even diplomatic with the crazy cat lady. First she wanted to know if her cat really loved her. I chose not to give her the Warrior Woman explanation, the one where when cats are rubbing up against you, they are really marking territory with their saliva. Food source= belonging to this cat. And they don’t snuggle on you because they love you. They find the warmest, softest place to sleep. I totally told crazy cat lady that her cat loves her madly.

Then she wanted to know if her boyfriend had gone for a coffee with a female friend. I already told her that he wasn’t cheating, but she had to know every.single.detail. That’s when my diplomacy wore a trifle thin. I told her she had to let him out of the house sometime.

She didn’t care to ask if the boyfriend loved her. Just the cat.

Posted in clients, doing bidness
December 11th, 2008 | 19 Comments »

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.

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Posted in clients, doing bidness
January 11th, 2008 | 22 Comments »

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.

Posted in What's this?, clients
November 25th, 2007 | 13 Comments »

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!”


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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November 16th, 2007 | 7 Comments »

Torch is a friend of mine.

She comes for readings once in awhile. I don’t care to read people I know, but hey, she is special.

I seldom remember what I tell people in readings, altered state and all that. Most any stories I would get from clients would be those clients coming to tell me how things I predicted went down.

One reading was especially puzzling to me. I said it looked like she was in hospital, but not really. I just couldn’t figure it out.

She came back to me to tell me what it meant when things went down.

Seems her brother was in hospital. The brother she had donated a kidney to. So, her kidney was in the hospital.

Her brother died a while later. She asked me if I knew what was bothering her, besides the obvious grief.

They buried your kidney?


You wouldn’t really want it back, sweetie; it has boy cooties on it.

I wonder if anyone ever actually reclaimed an organ after the recipient died?