Ten things I learned at yesterday's psychic fair:
1)Beware the Sandra Dee woman. She may look like the room mother for your kids, but the orb-eyed creature on her name badge should have been your first clue. She'll expound on her Earthly extraterrestrial mission and send you on your way with an I-Dream-of-Jeannie facial squeeze and a knowing stare.
2)Even the bathrooms have a mystical aura: a potent combination of flowing incense garb, residual heat from the aura photographer's bulb and the wrong end of the fru juice made from brown seaweed.
3)Scarborough Festival shirts are to psychic fairs what Skynard shirts are to monster truck pulls.
4)The only ring of Solomon I see at the base of my index finger is the inner goo of a Pop Tart from breakfast and it has nothing to do with wisdom.
5)The whites of your tarot card reader's eyes do not indicate a seizure. Her fifteen bracelets on each wrist might be interfering with a nearby electromagnetic field.
6)Even having psychic or higher-awareness skills does not redeem a man from being innocuous to details. It's nature. Just saying.
7)The compulsions I feel in this lifetime toward all things Reese's, purple and Oliver Hudson could be past-life shrapnel that didn't fully filter through the veil when I entered this life. This no doubt means I was a 1800s peanut farmer's wife, royalty, or a bartender with an astonishingly witty vernacular.
8)Something as disturbing as a short lifeline or impending health strife on the palm is still amusing in the presence of cherished friends.
9)Don't judge a psychic by a last name, but don't give him your ten bucks either. I'm sure Mr. Crooke would gift you with life's greatest secrets, but it wouldn't go down nearly as satisfying as the sangria at Pappasito's afterward.
10)The X-files Hallmark card belted out the perfect ending credits for the day. I want to believe. That the September thing will come true. That Sandra Dee will never teleport me back to her mothership.