Holy. Psychic. Shit.

I just had to pop a Xannie even to deal with writing this. Psychic—thank god I didn't name names—gave mom a list of eight things about me. Psychic was so happy that her mom still possessed this portentousness while in the throes of full-on Alzheimer's dementia.

Mom looked at the list and immediately saw how applicable it was/is to me.

So, here goes, in the order that she saw or felt things. (Remember, this woman has no idea who I am; that I'm a writer or that I have Cancer):

1.) She sees lots of "pins" and "needles" and says to "keep it up," that it's a great thing. That would be Chad, acupuncturist extraordinairre.

2.) Wanted to know if I talked/spoke/taught—and if not, that I should be doing it exclusively for women. Would this platform right here not be the thing? I've got some straight-male lurkers, but I'd venture that 95 percent of you are ladies.

3.) That I should surround myself with "blues." In the living room, sitting on the couch as I am now, I stare at the turquoise water through floor-to-ceiling windows. It's the reason I decided to keep this apartment. My bedroom has always been in blues and whites.

4.) She asked if anything with "pottery" meant anything to me; that I should be using my hands. I've always painted and drawn, but pottery was never my forte. Clearly I use my hands while writing, but I'm pretty sure I know what she's talking about. One of my talismen is an aqua, blown glass, genie-bottle type of mini vase that I bought in Safed, Israel. The birthplace of Kabbalah, where an aged, bearded man plucked me from the crowd and read my palm. It's filled with sand from the Negev Desert that, yes, I brought back from Israel. It's on Roxy's dresser where all my talismen are.

5.) There's a "young man" in my life, whom I confide in and to keep it up, that he's a very good person and friend to me. Again, I know exactly who this guy is, and without my cognizance, I really hurt his feelings last year. And I've apologized and all that, but I certainly didn't realize the extent of his feelings for me, friendship wise. And she's really right on the money again here—since seeing him in NY, he's been a little distant and I know that I've still got some fences to mend with him. Pardon all the cliches.

6.) She wanted to know if I owned a house—says that money is coming to me from the sale of a "property." Natch, Pollyanna Mom thinks this is my book. I don't think she gets that the days of six-figure advances for unknown writers are totally gone. Personally, I think Psychic is referring to Roxy's Jaeger le Coultre watch that I had refurbished recently. So I really do need to get an estimate on that ugly-but-perhaps valuable timepiece.

7.) That money is always on my mind and not to worry; that it's not a problem. That I needed to get rid of the thoughts. It was at this point that I lost it and started crying in my car in the parking lot of Whole Foods where I was on the phone with mom taking these notes. I'm a constant money-worrier and guilt-carrier. Not as in keeping up with the Jonesfarbs, but in terms of earning money as a writer. After all, we live in a capitalistic country. What other tangible way do we have to gauge our success in our respective careers than money? Or the ability to earn money and take care of yourself/your family. (Thank god I don't have a family; they'd be living in a box.) But then again, money is the only thing holding me back from moving back to New York, so . . .

8.) Lastly: There's a 40-to-50 year old man or woman in my life who I spend time with, but it's not a healthy relationship and I need to get rid of this person and listen to my inside voice about him or her. This is a really tricky one; I cut the toxic people out of my life long ago. And they were mainly in their 20s and 30s. I have a substantial group of older friends, but they're all amazing. I'm thisclose to going through my Facebook friends to figure out who the fuck this person is. But I have faith that they will reveal themselves soon enough.

So that's it. Christ, I'm emotionally spent from hearing and writing about this. She did NOT mention anything about my health, which is honestly what I was hoping for. Wouldn't it have been nice if she'd said something along the lines of "Do the initials PET mean anything to her?" But I'm not looking this gift-horse in the mouth.

Time to curl up with Wally and watch chick flicks. Though realistically I'll be pulling all my blue clothes to the front of my wardrobe rotation.

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.