Have I mentioned before the JCC (Jacksonville) psychic who works with my mom? I think I have—she's the one who told me my aura is golden and that I'm a 'new soul'. You guys know I'm not religulous, however, I DO believe in people who have natural psychic abilities. I think you're born with it, a la my fantastic Breast Ca gene! You may remember the psychic in India Brother visited a year or so before I was diagnosed: "Tell your sister she needs to get her breasts checked in the next couple of years." Time beat that psychic, but still.

So the JCC psychic would go into mom's office and say things like: "Don't worry Stephanie's surgery is going to go well today." (Without prior knowledge.) She is intuitive, but her mom was like a major psychic. The mother now has dementia, so she doesn't do readings anymore. Anyway, I was at the JCC in Jacksonville the other week and ran into her.

She was working the front desk when dad and I walked in. "So what's my aura today?"

"Golden, always golden." Hmm, gold—24k? Can I get upgraded to Platinum?

After my workout, I passed her again and she ran up to me.

"Stephanie, you have to start keeping a journal about your Cancer cause this is a book!"

(I assumed that everyone at the JCC knew I was a writer.)

"Uh, you don't know that I'm a writer and I've been blogging about this since the beginning. And it is a book [well, in the making anyway]?"

"No, I had no idea. You must keep a journal! And sage, sage, sage!"

"Ugh, I know I just hate that smell." It really is vomitous, that sage. But maybe that's why it works—like garlic to a vampire. I like garlic, however. Natch, I had to go get sage. Where the fuck am I going to find sage sticks in Jacksonville, I thought.

On a lark, I asked the dude at the fairly new Whole Foods. Surprisingly, they had it. So I went home and saged my room at the 'rents house, under my armpits, in the Cancer-y areas and my 'root,' aka, the v-jay-jay. Barbara taught me that one. Though I think my root is probably obscured by some cobwebs. But that's neither here nor there.

Yesterday morning, after I slid barefoot in a pile of Wally's shit he decided belonged in the kitchen, I saged the fuck out of this apartment. I did everything, the doors, the balcony, the bed and, yes, Wally's bunghole. (Can't hurt right, he is 14 years old after all.)

Having been out of Miami for nearly a month, it basically took me all week to unpack and get my apartment back into it's OCD-ruled order. So after I finally vacuumed, scrubbed the floors that Wally did his bizness on, and—most importantly—organized the wardrobe, I saged. (Three weeks, three cities, three vastly different climates=three wardrobes.)

Have I mentioned that it's in the 30s here? And I live right on the water in a wind tunnel cause the geniuses who built this complex, were, well, fucking geniuses. With the 20 mph winds behind my building, it feels like the teens. So I'm walking around South Beach in my full-length shearling. With more layers underneath than I needed in New York. I think the Apocalypse is coming right for me. Then again, I love busting out the winter wardrobe down here. There's something so wrong about it that it's right. Perhaps because I could be wearing my PJs under a fabulous coat and hat and shoes and you'd never know. But I digress about fashion as per usual.

Sooo, the psychic and why I'm literally sitting on my couch with my poopy dog waiting to hear from mom. Mom's at the office today and ran into Psychic. I'd given Psychic my calling card last time, and when she took it, she declared it "mmmh, so warm."

Okay, so here's the email from mom:

"Hi Honey….i’m at work today until about 3pm but just saw [Psychic]….she visited her mom yesterday and gave her your card and she wrote down a whole bunch of psychic things to tell you. She was amazed her mom even got a reading because she has dementia and said if she asked her about it today she wouldn’t even remember doing it!! Anyway the stuff she said is so interesting….i’ll try to call you later and tell you everything…I know you’ll want to know!!"

I'll post what she said later—unless I feel like I'd be jinxing myself by putting her insights out there.

Maybe it's about the PET scan on Wednesday or Norton or something good. Like, maybe these fucking drugs are actually working and I won't need to go back on regular chemo? Norton was certainly off-base with his contention that the one-week-on, one-week-off Xeloda cycle lessons side-effects. Pshaw, my back has been in agony all week and I'm literally—I'm not kidding, it's fucking disgusting—shedding skin on my yoga mat thanks to my peeling feet.

Alright, I'm out. Time to get off my ass.