Damn You, Little Rock

My interaction with the acupuncturist last week reminded me of the time I went with some friends to see a psychic. My best friend was getting married, and we were too old for drunken dares and scavenger hunts. A plastic penis necklace is really not all that funny when you’re 22. By the time you’re 30, it’s just weird. So we decided to see a psychic and then get some wine. I was in charge of this outing because of my “best friend” status.

Trouble was, I didn’t know any psychics. So I looked in the phone book. In fact, psychics do advertise in the yellow pages. I had to leave several messages before anyone called back. Apparently, returning messages in a timely manner is not on the list of credentials to call yourself a psychic.

We finally made an appointment. The woman was a little fuzzy on the time of arrival, while extremely clear on the terms of payment: cash only. She saw clients in her home. It was in a fairly upscale neighborhood, certainly nicer than my home at the time. It gave the impression reading palms paid pretty well.

When we got there, she insisted we come back for our readings one at a time. This was to ensure that the room wouldn’t be cluttered with extra spirits. Apparently, doing a reading like listening to an old FM radio, and you don’t want to be on the dial between two stations.

When it was my turn, she asked to hold a piece of jewelry to get the vibrations from it. I gave her a costume ring I wear sometimes. I wasn’t taking any chances with my wedding band, just in case. I mean, you never know.

She said my aura was missing a color. My “white” was blocked. According to her, this meant I was missing my purity. I didn’t want to argue with her, that seemed like poor manners, but I wasn’t missing my purity one bit.

She had a cure for what ailed me. She offered to “time travel” (I did not make that up) and find where my purity had been lost and restore it. I began to wonder if we were both working off the same definition of “purity.” I was already married with a child at this point in my life. I’m pretty sure we weren’t fooling anyone.

Also, it wasn’t any secret to me where my purity had gone. I knew the time and place I’d given it up. I was a willing participant in the event. I didn’t really think the details were her business, and certainly didn’t require the $500 she wanted to time travel in search of it.

I thanked her for her time, and paid her for the session. When I told Charlie the next day about my impure situation, he was very concerned. “You told her I’m not the slightest bit interested in you recovering your purity, right?” I assured him I was just as dirty as always, which is a good thing. It’s hard to determine which would have upset him more: the loss of $500 or my slutty frame of mind.

This weekend I stood on a stage and read my writing out loud to mostly strangers. They didn’t laugh, except in the parts they were supposed to. They didn’t throw rotten tomatoes, so that was good. My husband and I had some time together without the kid. That was really good.

We met while both going to school in Fayetteville. The college town feels comfortable to both of us. Even though it’s almost unrecognizable based on infrastructure on campus, the misspent evenings of our youth on Dickson Street seem the same. It doesn’t really matter what sign is on the door.

As it turns out, there is not a house cleaning fairy who does our laundry when we are away, so we’re back to the reality of cleaning, washing, folding and comparing calendars for work schedules and karate lessons. We’re back to being us. And that’s not a bad thing to be.

We did not stay here. But I think that might have been a mistake. They have Showtime AND Jacuzzis.

We sat on the roof at our Inn, listening to a couple of guys sing. We played Sorority Girl or Prom Date while watching couples walk down the street. We're getting old. It's hard to tell the difference.

We spend time getting lost in the Dickson Street bookstore. That is always time well spent.

Sunday there was a bike race on Dickson. Hundreds of bikes up and down the street. They were pretty incredible to watch.

Then it was time to get ready for the show.

Thank you to everyone who came out to the Listen to Your Mother Show in Northwest Arkansas. It was empowering to read my writing out loud and get the crowd to come along on my funny, wacky little journey. I deeply appreciate how much hard work went into this by Lela Davidson and Stephanie McCratic. They are magnificent women. If they ever ask you to participate in one of their shenanigans, say yes!