“I just walked in to find your mom and my mom summoning the dead,” deadpans Wordsmith Andretta to Middle Chicken.
Wordsmith Andretta is the first of the non-biological chickens, making her betrayal that much deeper. The child does not remember secrets kept from her parents and she obviously forgets Middle Chicken’s lack of patience for the foolish. Either way, Sunday morning features explaining to Middle Chicken how two grown women ended up chatting with the other side.
Well, yes and no. Sort of. We are sitting on the floor whispering and dissecting a conversation that may or may not have been with The Norwegian. There are lighted candles in a darkened room. But the candles are not on a table. We do not have our heads wrapped in scarves; eyes rolled back mumbling gibberish. There is nary a crystal ball in sight. We are simply howling hysterically at what The Norwegian has to say. This is the moment Wordsmith Andretta enters the room. The situation is obviously open for interpretation.
Perhaps the long drive from La-La Land has her confused. Perhaps she momentarily forgets that Middle Chicken is not amused by what she cannot prove scientifically. Perhaps she forgets that Middle Chicken will most likely lecture me concerning such silliness. She does not lecture. Instead, she lets the phone fill with the awkward silence indicative of tacit disapproval. Thank you Wordsmith. I wonder who you’ll call the next time you need a ride home from a party and don’t want your dad to know hmmm? Oh, you’re not in high school anymore? Who knew a time would come when threat wielding would prove useless?
Wordsmith did forget that no good comes from the joining of Contractor Girl, Realtor Girl, myself and cocktails. Has she forgotten holiday break when that bitch irish coffee pushed me right off my chair and onto the kitchen floor? Has she forgotten that it is Contractor Girl who taught me to sage in order to move to life’s next phase? Has she forgotten that I provided a good number of ornaments on her family’s Ugly Ornament Tree?
It begins innocently enough. I bring a new friend to admire Contractor Girl’s glorious kitchen remodel. BTW–no lie–you need a remodel? Contractor Girl is your go-to. How she comes up with these ideas is beyond me. The latest? She completely guts her kitchen, creates a new one even Martha Stewart would find impressive and feels bad getting rid of the old cabinetry and granite, which was the last remodel and gorgeous all on its own. She decides to add cabinets and granite countertops to The Lido Deck (her famous back patio party area) and now guests are left mouths agape at her creativity. Who thinks like that? I tell Sisterella and Sweet Calm K that Contractor Girl has issued an invite.
“Get your ass over here,” is the invite. “I have to write the blog.” This is Saturday night. As it is now Tuesday afternoon, declare her the winner.
“Why aren’t you here?” comes Realtor Girl shortly thereafter. “Where are you?” Again. “Where are you?” Resistance is futile.
Sweet Calm K is a kitchen girl from way back and giddy to see the remodel. Adequately impressed, she nearly squees at The Lido Deck transformation. Her reaction is worth the trip. Kind of like a library with a ladder and a Beast. Some things just make us all atwitter. Chatter and compliments, of course, come with cocktails. Contractor Girl relays an interesting conversation with her personal psychic and we collectively calm the rise of our arm hairs.
We move for a fill up and Contractor Girl announces her psychic is on the phone and ready to chat with me. Whaaaa? That’s how we end up on the floor in her slightly darkened bedroom, phone on the floor between us squealing at revelations. I fall on both sides of the other side. Some of it is pure nonsense to be sure and charlatans should not mess with those crushed by grief. On the other hand, who the hell knows what’s actually going on behind the curtain. I, after all, would truly like to be The Supreme and that’s certainly not without a dark side.
The psychic says to ask anything so I query about career as buying wine and living minus a shopping cart as a closet is kind of high on my list. She imparts information that would be pretty hard to guess and steers me in a direction which pays off first thing Monday morning–cue Twilight Zone music. Hmmmm. She advises me to step out of my comfort zone. Does she know me? And then we get to The Norwegian. And I finally ask.
“Why does he visit everyone else but me?”
She tells me he’s here all the time but I remain so wrapped tight in survival I don’t let him in. Hmmm again. She gives me some tips on summoning him and so perhaps there was some summoning going on. But this is well before Wordsmith Andretta’s arrival. Pfft.
I ask if my chickens will be all right and she replies: “He says–‘Aren’t they doing great? Of course they are. I am watching over them.'” Somehow the woman masters his tone. It is a bit startling and the arm hairs do their thing again. And then she makes a believer out of me.
“He also says, ‘What the HELL are you doing talking to a psychic?'” With this, Contractor Girl and I fall on the floor in laughter as we know The Norwegian is indeed sitting right here with us, exasperated that we would need a psychic to tell us the obvious. There is a quiet hush moment as it sinks in. We decide it’s the best part of the retell and call the girls in to share. This is when Wordsmith Andretta makes her appearance and decides summoning has taken place. And tattles on me.
Moral of the story? Et tu Brute? That’s for you Wordsmith. And summoning the dead can be kind of funny. Who knew?