Roses Are Red; Violets Are Blue; You Will Die A Terrible, Terrible Death


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If you have been around this blog’s block for a while, then you know I watch The Simpsons daily. I’m talking about reruns – we have roughly half the seasons on DVD and I watch them every night before bed, and also when I inevitably wake up at 3:13(ish) to ponder all of life’s problems.ย I think what The Simpsons does that no other show has pegged quite so perfectly is make very serious social commentary in a way that even the most unaware person can grasp.

This habit of mine has been going on for years, just the same shows over and over. And over again.

I know what you’re all thinking: my poor husband.

One of my favorite episodes of the show (in truth, they are all my favorite) is when they go to some kind of a fair and Lisa visits a psychic. The psychic starts by telling Lisa “you will die a terrible, terrible death” – but that’s a mistake, then she (the psychic who specializes only in predicting failed relationships) goes on to tell the story of Lisa’s almost-marriage to Hugh, a British snob who won’t wear Homer’s pigs-in-tuxedos cufflinks on the big day.

Fucking genius, eh?

Since the very first time I saw that episode, I have wanted to visit a psychic. I always thought it would be fun, also I have always wondered if it ever ends as dramatically as in Ghost when Whoopi Goldberg hears Patrick Swayze and embarks on the big endeavor to help Demi figure out who killed him. You guys have to admit that kind of shit happening to me would be pretty rad. Right?

I’ve asked and asked, to no avail. I keep saying I want to do it for my birthday – well that’s a stretch, because I don’t even get cake baked by someone other than me on my birthday. I’ve said I want it for Mother’s Day, which is a total waste of my breath. (I’m not even going to go into the type of reception I get for the one day I actually should be celebrated…)

Finally, a few months ago, I all but gave up on my quest to visit a psychic. No one would give it to me for my birthday; I wasn’t going to ever spend the money to do it myself if everyone else thought it was uncool … my future would just have to remain untold.

1505276_725035416603_1099103144_nThen this evening, we were exchanging Valentine’s Day gifts. We already started over the weekend – my husband of course works tomorrow, and he works in the city (about 50 miles away) so typically on Valentine’s Day he gets home late as a result of holiday traffic. A few years ago, he got home so late we couldn’t even go out for the dinner we planned on going to; last year he didn’t get home until about 9 – my daughter yelling “she is so mad, her boobs are sweating” as he came storming in the door. Before this evening, he had already gotten his I -heart- Dad mug, and all the kiddie things had been dispersed.

But what still remained was my gift to him, and his gift to me.

Having all but given up on gifts and my husband years ago, I basically just went out and bought him some baked goods. A piece of bread pudding. A piece of New York cheese cake. Some chocolate-covered strawberries. Then I put them all in a nice, heart-shaped box and felt kind of shitty today, so got take out for dinner which meant I made him no lunch for tomorrow. So when gift exchange came, I gave him the box and called it his Valentine’s Day gift-slash-Friday lunch.

If you’re thinking at this point that I’m winning at this game of being a housewife and Stay At Home Mom, you would be correct (not really). I do everything just about as half-assed as this whole Valentine’s Day thing.

Anyway, I opened his card, and to my amazement something so wonderful and amazing was contained within it. I was – almost – speechless.

He got me a gift card to visit the Psychic of the Stars.

This is the kind of gift that vindicates him for all of his peeing on the side and back of the toilet; the crumbs on the counter and beard hairs in the bathroom sink; for being a jerk when he should be loving and working way more hours than anyone with a family ever should.

Vindicates him for a short time, that is.

So what will my psychic reading say? Or should I do tarot cards? (Apparently I can use the gift card for either.) Will she say I will die a terrible, terrible death? Or will Whoopi Goldberg hear a ghost following me around, then we’ll embark on an epic adventure along the lines of Ghost (only I’m not kissing Whoopi like Demi did)?

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5 Comments on “Roses Are Red; Violets Are Blue; You Will Die A Terrible, Terrible Death

  1. Most of the corner psychics are useless. There are in my opinion the genuine psychics who have this unique ability. Ive had some paranormal experiences myself that were unexplainable so Im on board with the whole idea of psychics. Let us know how it goes.

  2. Well, dang, I could have read your cards, for free! ๐Ÿ˜‰ LOL, don’t expect too much, and realize that they read body language, and your face, just as much as they look at cards. I don’t dispute that some have a gift, but most are just really good people readers. Have fun! ๐Ÿ™‚

  3. Isn’t it nice when they listen and act?! I’ve been to a psychic twice – once a palm reading and the other a tarot card reading. Purely entertainment of course, both psychics saw 3 kids for me (the 1st psychic saw twins). Well, I have 2 kids -not twins- I am in my mid-thirties and for my husband and I that *ahhhemm* “ship has sailed”.
    You’ll have to do a follow up post about your visit with the psychic because inquiring minds want to know ๐Ÿ˜‰

  4. ^hear* not “here” (need coffee) + “I drive by a couple…” (I really need to attempt proofreading someday)

  5. That’s awesome! I think we all have secret [clean] guilty pleasures that we wish we’d get as a gift. It’s a two way street and it’s very cool that your husband got you a thoughtful gift. I’m curious to here how it goes. I drive a couple psychic places all the time and always laughed it off, but the other day I kinda got bit by the curiosity bug. I’m not saying I would believe any of it, but the curious cynic in me would be interested in hearing what they had to say. What could it hurt. What I really need is a therapist, but those cost real money. Maybe my path to self awareness, and long term decision making, lies in the hands of some lady in a beige vinyl-sided bungalow with a big ass arrow sign in her front yard.

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