I need to be available to answer calls within two rings. So, before I visit the smallest room in the house, I check to see where I am in the queue of logged in psychics. That way, odds are good that I won’t be interrupted.

The thing about playing the odds is that your number will come up eventually.

And?

This morning it did.

With a wad of TP jammed in mah drawahs, I picked up the phone with my unwashed hands and choked back the epithet “shit disturber” (thanks, Dad, for inserting that phrase into my vocabulary, always aimed at me. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY.)

Instead, the most pleasant, smiling voice greeted my client. “Hello. You’ve reached Gracie, extension 51650. May I have your first name, please?”

I proceeded to give him a kick arse right-on reading.

Now, I’m looking suspiciously at my tarot deck to determine just how many poo germs are on it, and if I have to wash my hands after every reading for the life of the deck.

I’m quirky like that.

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It Had To Happen Sometime