Do you ever find yourself amused (and amazed) by peoples' white trash antics?
Sure you do.
Southern Fried White Trash takes a humorous look at the unbelievable mindset of the national subculture (and Southern specialty) we affectionately refer to as "white trash."

Thursday, December 30, 2010

“Seeing a psychic”- I can cross that one off my bucket list

I really did, I went to see a psychic with my girlfriend. It took a lot for me to walk through the door of MADAM ANGELINA'S (and yes, there was a beaded curtain, just like in the movies). I have always poo-poo'ed the notion of anyone being able to see into the future or know things about us that they couldn't possibly know, unless of course they were psychic. In fact, I have always looked at those who seek the counsel of such a person to be weak or ignorant, or maybe both. My girlfriend has always been a spiritual woman though, always a seeker, and she seeks in earnest. She is exquisitely good and kind, and I just couldn't tell her no when she asked me to go with her. I think she wanted to prove something to me, maybe that psychics aren't con-artists or frauds. So I agreed to go with her to get a reading, whatever that is.
My friend Allison and I sat across the table from Madame Angelina (we'll call her Angie for short), and Allison explained that we were there to get an initial reading on me. I wanted to say that, if she really were a psychic, she should have known that, but I didn't. As I said, Allison is a genuinely sweet person, so I tried to keep an open mind. Angie began by lighting a candle and walking around me, trailing smoke and waving it toward my face. A psychic would have known that I have asthma, wouldn't she? Oh well. I sat still and quiet, holding my breath for as long as I could.
Now the three of us sat around a small table, and Angie asked to hold my hands, palms up. "Here we go," I thought.
"This is your life line, this one tells how many children you'll have (that should be interesting), and this one reveals your gifts." Hmmm. I kept my face expressionless, not willing to give Angie even a shred of help. "You have lived half your life," she uttered, as if she had amazed even herself. Really, Angie? That's kind of open-ended. I could live to be 100, or I could trip, fall off her porch and break my neck when we left. Either way, what she said was true.
"You are not comfortable being here and do not believe in us who see beyond." No, I'm sure that wasn't at all obvious. Arms crossed, muscles tense, frequent deep sighs and glances at the clock.
"You have a husband, and he loves you very much." True, but who would argue with that one? Like I'm going to stand up and say, "Aha! I'm married, yes, but he HATES me! Gotcha!" She was batting 1000.
"Your children bring you much joy." Again, please.
"You love deeply but hate deeply, as well." Yikes. That one caught me off guard. I didn't think I hated anyone (well, with one possible exception). I squirmed a bit in my seat.
I was waiting for her to spring the "you've battled weight all your life" thing on me. If she did, I was leaving. That's both obvious and frustrating to me. I was in no mood for a psychotherapy session led by a woman in a turban and a lot of cheap jewelry.
"You make a living with your words." What? How did she know that? I glanced at Allison, sure she and Angie had chatted on the phone before I had arrived.
"You like having material comforts." Uh, yeah I do. Don't you?
I can't remember all the rest; it really doesn't matter. I left with the same attitude I arrived with – you can read anything you want into what a psychic tells you. I can see how people desperate for answers, closure or peace could be taken in by these people. I am glad I went, though, if only for Allison's sake. Maybe for the sake of our friendship. In the end, I couldn't help myself though.
Angie asked me if I wanted to come back for a more thorough examination of today's discoveries. I stared at her, trying to communicate my answer telepathically. She just looked at me and repeated herself, as if I were deaf. Still not answering her (audibly anyway), I simply got up, pushed my chair in and left the room.
As Allison and I got into her car to leave, I caught a glimpse of Angie through the window, and she appeared to have a doll of some sort in her hands. Now I'm not trying to sound like an alarmist here, but I was sure I saw her easing a long pin into the doll's lower back and grinning maliciously. My back has been killing me ever since. What do you make of that?


  1. I could have done your reading cheaper. I use half-melted votive candles. Long live James Randi

  2. Dang girl. I wish I had known that. Do you have a bead curtain in your house? I think that has something to do with it, too.


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