Crystal Ballers

Do you feel lost? 

Should you change careers?

Is the man you're with treating you good enough? 

 

If you answered yes or no to at least one of these questions, then you're in luck! Call now for a reading over the phone! Yes, you heard that right. Our highly skilled spiritual advisore can tell what's in store for your future...over the phone. Over the phone! You know what that means, don't you? Of course you don't, you're not gifted in the same way we are. It means that good days are ahead for you! Oops, did we say too much? Call now! We know you'll be happy you did.

First time callers, call now to be charged only $3/minute. All regular callers, your rate is still $10/minute, but know we love you. You provide us with a paycheck. We're only taking advantage of you because we know you'll continue to call. We can we say, we're psychics. 

Probably from the Psychics' Perspectives

"These psychic commercials make us look so sleazy...don't you think, Pixie?"

"Ha, listen to this one, Jezebel. I got a guy on hold who wants to know what he should do about his relationship with his girlfriend."

"Why do people call us with their lives in our hands?" Jezebel thought aloud, as she often did.

"Oooooh, quiet, quiet, Brad is about to give the rose to Emily! Eeee! Turn the sound up, would ya?" Pixie demanded, as she often did.

"If I were going to, wouldn't you already know?"

"Ha. Ha. Funny, Jez. Now shut up, I want to hear if Emily is going to accept the rose!"

::2 minutes later::

"Uh, Pixie, isn't that guy still on hold?" Jez inquired.

"Oh, shoot! Wait, no, wait, it's okay. He's only been on hold for three minutes. We're piling in the Benjamins. Now stop munching on those Cheetos so loudly, would ya? I need to act like I'm in a secluded area and he shouldn't hear your loud mouth chomping in the background. That means turn off your dang cell phone and don't talk to Bud while I'm dealing with this customer, and mute the TV. Do you think you can handle that?"

"I think you already know the answer."

Pixie cleared her throat as if she were competing in the most-authoritative-person-alive contest.

"Hello, Sir, this is Pixie speaking. Thank you for holding as I was receiving divine inspiration about your specific case."

"Oh, thanks, Pixie. Like I was saying, I've been having problems with my girlfriend. I think she thinks that I'm not paying enough attention to her. What should I do?"

"Well, Sir, is it okay if I call you Timmy?"

"How'd you know Timmy was my name?"

"The letters T and I and M and Y just appeared," Pixie responded as she checked the caller ID from the phone's screen.

"Wow, you really are in tuned."

"Hahaha, Timmy, you could probably be one, too, for making a statement like that. But, listen, like I was saying, Timmy, I'm feeling as if you and your girlfriend are feeling a sort of tension in the relationship...and...um..." Pixie shifted in her La-Z Boy recliner.

"Yeah, yeah. That's right," Timmy confirmed.

"Will you please hold? I'm receiving some sort of inspiration. This may take a minute."

"Sure," was all Timmy could say.

"Come on, Pixie, don't you think it's a little rude to put him on hold just to eat?" Jezebel was getting sick of watching TV in the mute.

"Jez, I told him I'm receiving inspiration...and I wasn't lying. My stomach was telling me it's hungry--and if that's not inspiration, then I don't know what is." Pixie actually answered, as she took a bite of her delectable Dove chocolate.

"Thanks for holding, Timmy. So you and your current girlfriend have been going through some rifts. And you're worried about what's in your relationship's future. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Of course. Well, Timmy, it was manifested to me that you need to give your girlfriend a gift. Not just any gift, though. You need to let her know that you care for her. I get the feeling that right now you're having problems because she is feeling as though the romance has dwindled."

"Uh huh."

"Am I right so far?"

"I mean, I guess. She has told me over a year ago that she likes it when I give her attention. Do you think that's what's missing?"

"Of course. That's what I'm feeling. Oh, what's this? Hold on, wait. I'm starting to feel something more. Will you hold, Timmy?"

"Yeah."

"This is too easy. This guy's falling for anything I say," Pixie shared the obvious with Jez.

Jezebal nodded her matted head in agreement as she munched slowly on a Cheeto, then wiped her finger clean of the orange powder on the lower edge of her Cheeto-stained pink tank top.

"You know," Jezebal turned her head from the screeching sound coming from the Sham Wow commercial that plastered the TV screen, "I was thinking. Those producers of The Bachelor really do have it right. If I were on that show, I'd love to receive a rose from the man of my dreams. Isn't that just so romantic?"

"Quiet, Jez. I'm thinking."

A minute passes.

"Hi, Timmy. I received a revelation. Are you ready for what I'm about to tell you? Because, I know that this is the solution to your problems with your girlfriend...for now."

"Yeah! I'm ready!"

"You should give your girlfriend a single-stemmed red rose. Single-stemmed because it's symbolizing that your girlfriend is the only woman in your life. She is your one and only. Red indicates passion. By giving her a red rose, you are essentially stating to her that you care for her. You are the man in her life, and she is the woman in your life. Right now she's probably feeling as if she's not receiving as much attention from you as she'd like. The rose's thorns represent that there may be some sharp disagreements, and other hurtful events in the relationship, but that your relationship has of yet to fully blossom. By giving her the rose, you're showing her that you do value her and that she can never be replaced. "

"Oh, wow. Thanks. I'll be sure to do that. You may have just saved my relationship."

"Okay, is there anything that I can further assist you with?"

"I think you just helped what matters most in my life! That's it."

"You're welcome, Timmy. May you be blessed with with positive energy in the near future, and with your girlfriend."

Pixie clicked the "end" button and killed the phone call. At that moment, a dancing backwards-robe-wearing woman was reflecting a blue blur all along the wall across from the TV. 

"But wait, there's more! When you order a Snuggie, you'll also receive a cheap, plastic booklight that'll last for two days max! A $23 value...for FREE! Hurry, this deal ends in two years!" The overenthusiastic male voice boomed.

"I love my job, Jezebel. These clients are so easy to manipulate. They're so dumb," Pixie informed Jezebel.

"You know, Pixie, I think I need a Snuggie," Jezebel ignored Pixie, for once.
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From My Perspective

"I just got off the phone with a psychic." You could tell that Timmy was proud of his first-ever talk with the omniscient.

"What'd they say?" I asked older brother, whom I looked up to, with curiosity beaming from my bulging brown eyes.

"That I need to give my girlfriend a single-stemmed red rose, and it'll help to heal our relationship."

"...but you don't even have a girlfriend," I reiterate.

"I know. Those psychics are so easy to manipulate. They're so dumb," Timmy established.

"They're just psychics, you know?"

The Ninth Thing in Common

"What?!" This was only my third time in a row repeating this question.

"I said what song is this?!" He yelled at me from 3 inches away.

"Oh, this is Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus!" I yelled back him, who was a mere 3 inches from my face.

"Who's that?!"

"Some stupid Disney girl!" I had to yell so that my new guy friend and I would be able to hear each other over the screaming girls who jumped in excitement over the tween song.

"I think all the Disney girls should be punched!"

"Yeah, I agree! Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Miley Cyrus...!" Wouldn't it be nice to slap these girls back to reality?

Okay, so this guy and I were getting along great. We seemed to have at least one thing in common: we didn't know how to bridle our innate rage other than wanting to slap millionaire girls who possessed no talent.

Now, usually, for this type of deep conversation, I would have preferred to have been in a nice, quiet restaurant that has candlelit table tops, cloth napkins that go on your lap, where the servers are anxious to bring you four bowls of Fagioli soup, without muttering to themselves, "Dang, this girl's eating like this in front of a guy?!" Where bread sticks come and go at your request. Where you can take a tour of Italy just by ordering The Tour of Italy. This place is known as Olive Garden. However, the pounding dance floor that was full of guys and girls jumping to a Miley Cyrus song would have to suffice as a place where he and I could talk openly about anything and everything. It would only be right--after all, I only met him an hour ago, right in this very spot, and we needed to be loyal to our roots. Plus, uh, we had both come with a ride.

Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you
That is how I know you go on

A slow song interrupted our unbridled topic of conversation about how all Disney girls turn out messed up.

"Do you wanna dance?"He said with his hand making its way toward mine. This intriguing guy wants to touch my hand?! I think I may or may not have had a heart attack at that moment.

"Uh, sure." I shrug. "But I don't know how to dance." Play it cool, Shannon, play it cool.

"It's okay. I don't either." We're meant for each other!

Second thing in common.

"You know, I have never seen all of Titanic," he remarked as he swayed me back and forth to the non-Disney girl song.

"I fell asleep in it. I also fell asleep in all three Lord of the Rings movies." Yeah, I know, I know, I have pure talent for the ability to make myself sound interesting.

"Really?! You should watch them again. I read all of those books." Glad I didn't tell him that I also fell asleep in Sherlock Holmes, Avatar, and Invictus.

"I tried reading The Hobbit but couldn't make it past the first chapter." I sure do know how to impress a guy.

"You're not one of those girls who has read Twilight, right?" What kind of girl did he think I was?!

"Um, no. I have never laid a finger on that book and never will."

"Good, but knowing that the author of that book graduated from BYU makes me feel a little embarrassed."

"You know, the makers of Napoleon Dynamite also attended BYU. And I hate that movie. You don't like it, do you?" Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

"Well, it was funny the first time. Then it got annoying." He saved himself with that last sentence.

"No, it's always been annoying."

Third thing in common.

By this point I couldn't believe it. Was I actually talking to my soul mate? This guy and I seemed to have very similar tastes. Or...at least three things in common!

The fourth thing we shared in common was our love for Seinfeld.

"The only dance I know is The Elaine," I admitted to him. My secret was out.

I then proceeded to stick my fat thumbs up and do little kicks (with my little legs). And, I admit, I had never felt this comfortable in a guy's presence before. I mean, sure, I always make a fool of myself in a guy's presence, but this time was special. Let me rephrase that; I always make a fool of myself in a guy's presence, but this time was special, for it wasn't on accident.

"I also like The Carlton dance," I admit, "but I can't do it."

"The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is awesome!"

Fifth thing in common. Is this guy perfect for me or what?

"Oh, hey, do you remember the head-banging dance move from A Night at the Roxbury?" He asks me.

"Heck yeah, I do!"

Our sixth thing in common. Aww.

"Okay, well, I'm going to go add that song to the request list. Is the song called What is Love?"

"Yeah, it's by Haddaway."

Is this guy perfect for me or is he perfect for me?

Shake Your Head Yes.

I decided to make this song our song, "...but if they play this song, I don't think anyone here will get the head-bopping reference, except me and you." Yes, I know. I'm a romantic.

For the hour and a half that this guy and I spent talking to each other, I had gotten him to dance, which, when I had first spoken to him, he made it clear that he doesn't dance. I had gotten this guy to open up to me. We were able to connect in some way. Some way that I'd never experienced before.

"Hey, I'm going to go get some water," he told me.

"Oh, I like water!" Seventh thing in common.

As we were having our water cooler chat, he admitted two things to me.

One: "My ride's leaving in a couple of minutes. But I think you're cool and fun. We should stay in touch." Our eighth thing we had in common...because I felt the same way. I think I'm cool and fun.

and

it's really too bad for me that we shared one last, very important ninth common interest: we were both attracted to guys.

I guess I don't need to tell you that the DJ never did play What is Love, but it would've been nice to hear the answer.

Thumbelina

"I'm leaving my girlfriend," the rosy cheeked boy whispered in my ear during a lovey-dovey musical scene--obviously trying to replicate Disney--from the movie, Thumbelina.

I droop my mouth in an exaggerated look of shock. "Why?"

 "For you."

I usually don't make good first impressions, but today goes to show that unfortunate circumstances can change.

"You're small like Thumbelina," he smiles at me with those deep-set baby blue eyes of his. I know that his now ex-"girlfriend" was the woman who worked as the office secretary...who was also old enough to be his grandma. I get it, he's hitting the stage now where he's becoming more attracted to younger women. Who are also around his height.

I had only known this new boy for four hours before he told me I was his new girlfriend. Who did this guy think he was, trying to win me over with these expedient compliments? But boy, I have to admit--he sure knew how to sweep a girl off her feet.

Flattery soon hazed my judgment. I couldn't hold any of this new-found knowledge in anymore. I needed to tell everyone thes words of admiration that this boy had just revealed to me.

"...so he told me he's leaving Pam for me," my face beams as my dry, chapped lips curl naturally into smile formation.

"Oh, well that's interesting," my boss enlightened me.

"Oh...?" I acknowledge, as I try to make the carpet clutter-free of Legos.

"Because today he told me that I was his new girlfriend." I didn't think it was supposed to start raining until tomorrow, but this snippet of news from my boss sure dampened my parade. She continued, "Yeah, these were his exact words: I'm leaving my girlfriend for you." She said this as she scrubbed markers from the wall. How could she act as if this was a typical thing to be told?

"Oooooooh," was all I managed to muster. "B-b-but that's exactly what he told me!" I exclaimed with a genuine look of shock plastering my face, I'm sure.

"Then he said..." my boss remarked as she had one of the other eight year olds go over and blow his nose, "since we're boyfriend and girlfriend now, we need to go hot-tubbing." She continued to make the classroom more presentable for the baby shower that was scheduled to be held in her honor in half and hour.

My life of perfection, if only for 20 minutes, came to a halt. My man, at the grand age of eight, is already wanting to hot-tub with another woman (married, nonetheless) whose first child is due next month.

There's a fairy in this story. Here's a hint: it's not me...or Thumbelina.

Fairy tales don't really exist...but fairies do.

100% Reason to Remember the Name

Disclaimer: I wrote this story on behalf of my friend, "Rochelle."

“So, how was your week? Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asked, the same way he’s been starting out our conversations for the past eight weeks. He is reliable.

“Yeah, how do you remember all the people I talk about? I mean, like, how do you remember their names? Because it seems like you remember all the people I mention. I know you take notes after each session, but what are you writing down?” I ask with wondering eyes.

“Oh, I just jot down what we talked about. What your struggles were that week, etc.,” my one (and only) confidant notes.

Wow, he knows everything about me. He just knows me so well.

:10 minutes later:

“…So I printed out this worksheet for you to complete this week throughout the next few weeks. Try and fill it in everyday,” he mentions as he hands the slip of paper over to me.

I nod my head that, yes, I would try and complete this task, all the while intensely focusing on the words Jessica’s Daily Activities that were displayed proudly atop the paper.

“…So, in this box you would mark on a scale of 1-10 how you felt that morning. Then in this box you would mark how you felt that evening. The point of this activity is that I want to see what you’ve done that day that has impacted how you feel. I know Jessica enjoys blogging. So, say, blogging could be one of the activities that you mark that has helped you that day. You’ve also mentioned that you like being outside and doing yard work. You could also mark that down,” he continues to explain to me how exactly to fill out this little project that was printed a week ago.

“How do you feel about this? Do you have any questions?” he tends to ask me this question after every statement he makes.

“Uh, yeah, just one question: who’s Jessica?”

“You…” Um, do I have another personality that I’m not fully aware of?

“I’m not Jessica.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“…You’re Jessica MyLastName (how’d he even know how to pronounce my difficult last name???),” he says with a slight hesitation, as if he’s trying to confirm to himself that he isn’t mistaken.

“Uh, that’s not me.”

A brief pause of silence.

“…Then what’s your name?”

“Rochelle,” I say, slightly embarrassed that I even brought the whole Jessica issue up.

Crap! he’s probably thinking to himself, I’ve just lost another client.

“I guess I spoke too soon about you knowing everyone’s names,” I remark…not knowing what else to say.

Wow, he knows everything about me…except my name.

Awkward silence.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry...sooooo, tell me the lowpoints of this past week..." He didn't know how to respond either.

This is why I’m in therapy.

The Morning After

Gulp.

What did I DO last night?

My memory has once again failed me the morning after. Not to my surprise, once again, I have left a trail of evidence for myself to discover the following morning.

Laptop history from last night says I tried joining a dating website under the username IAmNOTAllergicToYou. Oh boy. La-di-da-di-da. I'll just delete the profile and then this little five hour "phase" in my life has been erased. There, much better.

Wait, what's this? I've uncovered yet another "secret" gem: YouTube reveals my brother, his fiance, and I made a karaoke video wherein I'm the star of the remake to "I'm Too Sexy."

I'm scared to search further.

"Shannon, you're super funny when you're like that," my brother reveals to me as I make my public appearance for the day, "you need to be like that every night."

I cringe inside that my impaired judgment could have led my body to participate in such activities. Gosh. It's at this moment that I've made yet another grim discovery. Not only was I cringing on the inside. I was cringing on the outside, as well. A bruise shines brightly on my arm, from bumping into walls from last night's stagger.

I check my phone to further investigate last night's escapade and discover that I made a phone call at 12:30 in the morning. Who knows what the crap I said? Oh, that's right, the owner of the voicemail does. I hope I didn't say anything too revealing or embarrassing, but being under this substance kind of warps your mind. 

Now this is getting interesting.

"Do you still find that one joke funny?" My brother asks, "because you couldn't stop laughing at it last night?"

"What joke?"

"What does a gay horse eat? Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaay."

Oh, dear. I'm in worse shape than I thought.

"Or, how about this one: Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill?" He's just teasing me now.

"Why?"

"To get to the bottom!" He says with a grin.

No. Now I'm in worse shape than I thought.

Trying to get away from real-life, I step into my grandma's room. She's pretty entertaining. Maybe she can lead my mind away from my last night's behaviors.

"Hi, Shannon. Did you have a good night last night?" She asks with enthusiasm.

"Yeah...I slept well."

"Good. Because I have plenty more where that came from--let me know if you want anymore. I want to give some to your mom, but she won't take it. You should talk her into using it."

"Okay," I lied.

The Seinfeld theme song goes off. I've received a text. No, wait, my phone's just reminding me that I have unread texts.

"I'm glad you didn't drive here last night in that state of mind," my friend had lovingly texted me.

Surely my judgment was impaired--but to want to drive somewhere under that condition, go out in public like that. I couldn't be more ashamed of myself...

...when I'm on Ambien.

Fartin' Margaret

You’re back in eighth grade and your mom makes you sign up for Spanish so that you can be prepared to take Spanish I/Spanish II in high school, complete your foreign language requirement, and move on with your life. When I was in high school, I was the top student in my Spanish classes. Languages came naturally to me. But unlike his super talented foreign-language-learner sister, my brother despised Spanish. In fact, the only phrase he remembers years later from his invaluable Spanish classes is “callate la boca.” Also known as “shut your mouth.” I’m guessing he has heard this phrase one too many times.

There my brother is sitting in his eighth grade Espanol class, learning about flan and how people eat this nasty excuse for a dessert in Spanish cultures. Only 2 minutes ‘til the bell rings, yet time seems to be standing still.

“Flan doesn’t only come in vanilla.”

Tick tock.

“There is also chocolate flavored flan.”

Tick tooooooooooooooock.

“Personally, my favorite is vanilla, though. The texture of it is kind of like a custardy Jell-O. Hey, in fact, I think Jell-O has an instant mix of flan that even comes with caramel sauce!”

Tick toooooooooooooooooooooooooooock.

“I encourage you all to go home tonight and beg your mom to make you flan for dessert. Have her drop what she’s doing, have her go to the store, and buy instant flan mix. But…don’t tell her I told you to say that. Tell her that your education is very important to you and that if you try it you’ll get extra credit. TWO points extra credit!! Also, don’t forget, but your paragraph about your family is due tomorrow. Use your best Spanish.”

Brrrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnng!

“Don’t forget, but you also need to include a drawing of your family!”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Here’s a drawing not dissimilar to what my brother turned in:

A few days after turning in his masterpiece, the flan-loving teacher asked to speak to my brother after class.

She probably just wants to congratulate me on how life-like my drawing looks. Or, worse, what if she found out I don't really have a dog?? Dang it, I should have said I have a pot-belly pig, that would've been more believable!

“El Niño, I have a question about your project. In your About My Family paragraph, it says here, ‘Fartin’ Margaret is mi perro. Ella es fea y vieja. Ella no stop yapping. Ella is smelly a tambien. We want to put her down.’”

I bet she’s wondering whether I’m having a hard time at home because I have to put my “ugly and old” dog down. That’s gotta be--she's probably a very sensitive person and wants to know how she can help--what else could it be?

“Now, son, did you know that my first name is Margaret?”

“Uh…no…wow, hmm...what a coincidence."

Yes, but I didn't think YOU'D know the dog was a symbolism for you.

“Here’s your hall pass. The principal’s expecting you.”

True story. My brother hated Spanish and his teacher so he decided to bring the passive-aggressive approach into his homework. Yes, he turned in a picture of a hecka (we Californians use this word sometimes) ugly dog, named it Fartin’ Margaret (after her), and handed it in as part of his “Mi Familia” project, not thinking that she would notice the subtle attack. I guess he was probably thinking she would react in a fashion where she would be overjoyed to know that one of her student’s dogs shared the same name as her. I don’t know. All I know is that my brother is witty. So, if you want to pass your eighth grade Spanish class, you can add an imaginary dog/pig/cow/rat/whatever to your family. Just make sure its name is Loveable Margaret—NOT Fartin’ Margaret. You don’t want to get into a stinky situation.