Such a short time at home, and I’m back in the land of dubious internet access tomorrow morning. Won’t be back home for two weeks.

I thought I might tell you about the session I had with a client at the psychic fair.

When I perform a body scan, I resonate to the physical body of the client, and I can usually tell what is going on in their body. Sometimes it’s really funny, like if they have to pee, or if they are horny. I always tell them, because what’s the good of knowing that stuff if you can’t share it with your client? They always laugh, albeit sometimes nervously.

Then they’re all how did you know that and I’m all duh, you asked for a body scan, and it’s all good.

During this particular body scan, we were seated at my table. I was describing an inflammation in the breasts and showing her where it was located on my own, because I doubt that she wanted me to actually be touching her tatas.

She was mirroring my gestures to be sure she could detect what I was describing, when all of a sudden I lost it. Just helplessly laughing. There may have been snorting. Most certainly braying.

client: What’s so funny?

witchypoo: You see all those people looking at us?

client: ye-es.

witchypoo: They are watching us feel ourselves up.

client: loses it too.

You know, when you have a reading with me, you are almost guaranteed to have a good time. I’m totally fabulous that way.

The very lickable Ree has sworn to punish me because I didn’t make a psychic drawing of Practice Husband back in the day for her.

She wants me to list eight things I want to do before I die. I did a lot of travelling when I was a kid, so that novelty has worn off. Especially with all the security measures involved these days. These are in no particular order, and off the top of my head, so are subject to change.

1. Have my children outlive me.

2. Own a smart car. I love those things. And it’s been ten years since I owned a car.

3. Retire to a Bed and Breakfast in the town I was born. Right on the sea. Have teenaged girls do the cleaning and laundry. I’ll cook and tell stories. I could hold special psychic weekend thingies.

4. Find a wonderful wife for Ass Burger Boy. He still lives at home. I would miss him, but I want him to have that for himself. Besides, I would like to have someone I would feel safe leaving the heirlooms with.

5. Have a healing centre and artist’s retreat.

6. Visit with my bloggy friends, or get the house cleaned up enough for them to visit me.

7. Pay my brother Dizzee the money I owe him.

8. Meet Lucy in da Sky, the shaman from Texas that I totally adore.

Now for the tagging:

Jacki

Christy

JennFL

Warrior Woman

FabGrandma

Teenie

Coast Rat

Candy

I was so very bad the other day. Very.

A return client visited my booth at the psychic fair. She said my predictions pretty much panned out last year.

She wanted to know about a possible relationship, and I obliged her by using my clairvoyant abilities. I focused on a piece of paper, waited for the image to appear, and quickly traced it, then filled in the details. It was an image of her next squeeze.

No sooner had I put the pencil down than I spied what I was sure was the subject of the drawing just entering the venue. Out of the side of my mouth, I said “Look, over there! Go on, look!”

He came and stood in front of my table in record time, while I was reading the client. It isn’t the usual etiquette. The readings are considered to be private. Yet, he appeared to be perusing my literature.

All of a sudden, I squealed and pointed to a particular card.

witchypoo: “Oh, look! Great sex for you!”

guy in front of table: “Pick me, pick me!”

client: “I don’t embarrass easily, but you have managed it.”

guy in front of table: “My, my, you are a beautiful shade of red.”

witchypoo, still talking out of side of her mouth: “Look at the drawing, look at him.”

client (hiding picture, face still flaming, hissing): “I wouldn’t be able to look at him if he camped on my doorstep now.”

Guy moves on after some awkwardness.

witchypoo: “He was totally into you.”

I’m not sure she will be back next year.

We have left the Rock, and have two days to relax before we set up at the next venue. The Inn was full where Rye and Ginger stayed along with Illa, their long time travelling companion.

Medicine Man usually takes a room at the local university. Cheap rates, food on site, wireless access in the cafeteria. Only it’s a dorm room. And there was only a double left.

This means that I am sharing a room with a man, and, sorry, Warrior Woman, not in a slutty way, although I acknowledge your efforts to pimp me out.

I find Medicine Man to be very interesting in various ways. Very soft spoken, this comes from his Ojibway heritage. Half Italian explains his love of the food.

His mother married his best friend when he was a teenager. He left for the bad streets and bright city lights because he couldn’t handle it. And really? Who could? Then began what he calls his “colourful life”.

A lot of his personal friends are strippers, dominatrices, and women generally associated with the sex trade. It seems he has experience in the field. He became deeply entrenched in “The Life”.

For three years, he slept with a gun under his pillow because he opted out of the shady underworld that connected the Hell’s Angels to the Italian organization. (His father was the Italian connection)

I asked him why he stopped (with the gun sleeping thing). He says that now he doesn’t care.

I wondered if that was why he drove the way he did.

He was offended that I thought his driving was bad.

Half Indian. I asked if he subscribed to the theory that “Today is a good day to die”. And? Was he fixing to take me with him?

I was fortunate while I was on the Rock to meet up with the brother of an old friend of mine. The old friend is the server guy who hosts my readings website. The brother made sure that I found some good food to eat while there, did a wee bit of sightseeing, and of course, got Screeched In.

I asked my friend’s brother what his blog name should be and he was happy to reveal that he already had a pseudonym for the Hash House Harriers. That’s a club for drinkers who have a running problem. I KNOW! Just what I thought!

Since it’s a worldwide organization, the name will often acknowledge the region you hail from. Thus, my friend’s brother is known as Take it up the Eh? (Eh? being a Canadian saying.)

Eh? had a red silk dress made for him especially for the famed Red Dress Run while hashing in Thailand, and I loved this image of him in his lovely dress with red bows in his beard.

As an added bonus, I give you the get-up for the Lingerie Run, which turns out is quite a hit with the Harriers. He appears to have quite a buzz on in the picture. I suspect that is true, since he looked at me with both eyes when he accompanied me. His baby beard is now a full-grown goatee, which he tells me intrigues his gay friends. Seems that mens always want to see if the drapes and rugs really do match.

Take it up the eh? (who, by the way, Knudsey, is not ghey) would have been delighted to transport me to the venue on the other side of the rock (nearly 1,000 km) but it turns out he had a run in D.C. the next day. He assured me, however, that he is very compliant, and not at all a Pee Nazi.

He’s a very obliging sort. A little bit goofy. A whole lot smart. Just like most of my friends are. And aren’t you glad that I educate you about these sorts of things?