OK, so here’s a little story about my recent trip to Southern California, specifically a coastal city that since the 80s has been besieged by New Age boomer hippies and, strangely, strip malls.

I’ll just come out with it.  I went to see a psychic.  I went not because I actually wanted to know something (although I will admit I sort of wanted to know if my plane would crash on the way home), but because I was genuinely curious.  You might say I went as an anthropologist of sorts intent on studying the SoCal culture of chakras, crystals and self-help gurus.

Here’s what my “guides” told the psychic, a clairaudient with one hell of a perm, I have to say:

1) Mr. P is having a midlife crisis and is extremely attached to his car.  He should also consider using Viagara because if he doesn’t he might think his waning masculinity is my fault and have an affair.  [Reality: Mr. P is not having a midlife crisis -- I doubt he ever will -- and he drives an old Toyota he cares very little about.  He definitely DOES NOT need Viagra, which is probably TMI.]

2) I will have another baby, a girl.  I’ll apparently get knocked up while somewhere else on vacation. [Reality: I don't want another baby and when we do travel we'll be sure to bring raincoats.  And if you didn't catch the metaphor, too bad.]

3) My job bores me and I will likely change careers, or I won’t and will regret it later.  [Reality: I have a tenure-track job in the humanities at a gorgeous school in a near perfect location with a humane teaching load that does not involve teaching comp.  'Nuff said.]

4) Finally, I need to become a more self-assertive person, one not so afraid of confrontation.  [Reality: no shit.  Isn't this the case for many people, youngish women especially?]

I don’t regret the visit whatsoever because it has given me something to talk about on this here blog.