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

I was telling her about all the young women who call me on the psychic power network, or PPN. They want to know if the object of their desires will call them or text them, and what does he mean by “I just want to be friends”?

I explained that I tell them to create an air of mystery, and step back a bit, see if he comes to them.

Skinny Bitch erupted into gales of laughter.

“OMG! That’s totally code for STOP STALKING HIM!”

She knows me so well.

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Code Talk with Skinny Bitch